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Paul Hardwick
Poems
Feb 2012
Brink.
Brink sat on the edge as he always did.
Brink I asked.
Why sit there on the edge.
It is my place.
I could see what he told me was true.
Brink then fell over.
Fell said, here we go.
No more memory of misadventure.
For Brink was now dead.
Written by
Paul Hardwick
64/M/England
(64/M/England)
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