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With your own breath

Bringing dead language

To life.


The language

The colonial
The PC
The new Puritan.

Speak I say
And write-

Miracle can

With breath
oh, how in this dark
oh, how the wave flows,
the sky black and stark-
oh, how the wind blows.

the little dogs bark
their songs full of woes,
oh, how in this dark-
oh, how the wind blows.

the autumn draws nigh -
last splash of the rose,
a withering sky-
oh, how the wind blows!
And I wonder
If we feared saying those three words
A little less
Would our precious world reside
In its current state of distress?

© JL Smith
My half of the world's fast asleep
Both hands stretch to twelve in a reach
And as their minds fill with dreams,
I fill paper
With the spilling of my blood and ink

© JL Smith
what horizons await us, what skies fasten
to the bright ambers of our dreaming bones?

our love, water trickling over
a pebble in a stream,

the whoosh of  
leaves and a shadow in the dark,

the ghost of a poem
written in a dream,

the splendour of the tide,

both everything and

our love neither a poem or a sigh,
all the winds battling,

spring's blue moon waiting near the
water for one slow ripple to reach
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