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Mar 2015
The wisdom is held tightly,
swaddled in opinion.
The trains of though race,
with a hot coal that burns.

Burns and pounds
and the weapon's locked away.
Writhing and screaming,
but a silence counts the seconds on the clock.

Clock's that move quickly,
but slowly runs the time.
The gunpowder finds the match:
Smithereens of impressions scattered on the floor.
JParker
Written by
JParker
702
     Adrian3 and Anneke
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