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Feb 18
The silence hits harder than a punch,
Yet time flies by.
But oh so slow when words, once so easy,
become lodged in the deep well of insecurity and defiance.
The dichotomy a crescendo with each silent passing hour.
The fire's smoke, now whimpering tendrils, flit out as if caught in a breeze.
But the air is still, the storm is only raging in my unsettled mind,
And the next farewell may become another Eulogy to love lost.
Monday's can be brutal
Declan Quinn
Written by
Declan Quinn  Derry, Ireland
(Derry, Ireland)   
370
   Butch Decatoria
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