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Sep 2014
he typed the night sky in colours
that have yet to exist,
and stars that have yet to shine,
lived amongst the shadows
of burnt up poetry lying dead
on cold bathroom floors.
he called it artistic, metaphorical perhaps,
as he searched for empty answers
at the bottom of the glass.
to dream of "love",
and title it literature,
was to breathe.
Dean Eastmond
Written by
Dean Eastmond  Weymouth
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