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She was a skeleton inside a snakeskin canvas;
the smoothest of hands to hold it’s madness.
She punctured the cliffs edge
but she wouldn’t meet the venom;
too dull, too grey,
pull at the tendons and never see heaven.
Did the momentum fade with the rain, was the rain golden?
Was it frigid, did everything stand still or was it fallen?
The more I reap the details in which mystery was apposed
the more I sew the waves with my narrative and dizzy words.
I picture a youth in my arms; squirmed in me and yanked out.
I’m too much of a charcoal cloud,
raw, cold yet loud.
Maybe it’s me above the harbour,
I’m curdling on the brink
like pale suns in vintage skies;
there’s nothing else to live for.
She bathes below the faucet of the sea and takes in discolouration.
When the windscreen wipers stop, breathing stops in full acceleration.
My Dear Poet
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