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Colm
Poems
May 2020
Just Runners In The Garden
Scarce were no more words than weeds
In the garden of our perpetual being
Be they plucked or pulled
From tree born stars
Or shooting leaves across auburn eaves
How they fall so smoothly
And with such succinct being
That they couldn't be misconstrued as less
Or more so present in our mutual meaning
We are a garden of bygone dreams
By the wayside of being
Been
Running
Written by
Colm
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