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Oct 2011
What don’t you know about life
That I might be able to
Ponder, guess, describe, relate?
Why does my voice, the lilting phrases
Put in places left over from
Some overlooked template, matter?
Written words tell only what
Resides, stirring morosely, in
Time. Tell of the ticking away
Thoughts which
Long to perpetuate
And be looked upon again,
Known again.
Written by
theo holland
535
 
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