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Brett Houghton
Poems
May 2015
Wall Street
Tilt the life liquid,
from occupied plastic;
so rivers stream
where you can't see,
but you can hear.
It is kin to phlegm
in the back of my throat
And 'scaped from my lips,
a hero drops,
Too worn from tubes
To accept another.
Askew a tongue
to a soldier who's fallen.
Rescue the numbed.
A soldier.
What makes a hero is loneliness
Because feeling lonely is all he is.
So pity on him. Folly it is.
Image > Metre
Written by
Brett Houghton
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