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B S
Poems
Dec 2012
Waste of Paint
Everyone has a ghost.
Some call them their first love.
I call mine you.
You're my ghost,
the stone in my heart.
And how does one -
erode a stone?
Vitrification?
Turn you into something,
pleasing to touch?
Oh -
but my hands are -
cold as snow.
Written by
B S
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Roseanna H
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