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Sep 2010
Wrench the tide,
And sail her not.
Of high set Moon,
And papered thought.
The tested weights,
Of self serve oughts.

It's time to turn the heal.


With splinter pulled,
And darkened lace,
So distant now,
And out of place,
Should fade connections'
Pretty face?

The least-of-alls will feel.
Keith Ren
Written by
Keith Ren
766
 
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