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Jul 2019
all the moving blessed things
become brittle in my gaze,
blithely lost amongst songbirds
whistling softly through the haze.

censorious glances given squarely
with tongues spitting folly filled absolutes;
covered in the insolent naïveté of those who think their truths beyond dispute

in this deafening self-induced shell
good turns to plainly earnest need,
yet its riddled with all that is and isn’t...  
with uncertainties clustered greed.
Written by
ATL  19/M/MA
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