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Onoma
Poems
Apr 16
Capped Poles
A halo falls thru its circle,
has no memory of its
circle.
Hovers over the top of
a head.
The stagnant expanse
of an abyss--pure enough
to be of.
Until a wanderer lets
wandering go ahead.
Capped poles blown
open.
Written by
Onoma
NYC
(NYC)
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62
Mike Adam
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