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Timothy hill
Poems
Aug 2017
Doors
Hinge, your self a destiny and only door's will open.
The mouth of a carpet dancers fool.
O how did he love his roar.
With what menace the dice of rice also soup.
My Hungary often play's violin with purple and a trouters fan.
Your thought on a destiny lol.
Written by
Timothy hill
Ny
(Ny)
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