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and so i tremble
oh, need i even regret
having tried,
having been broken beyond mending
like rare china?

the years balm not
for as the shadows follow
the lean figure, they haunt.
too deep for tears.
sighs would be trite.
but, there is no begging.

would that i could hate:
love betrayed is vinegar
poured on wounds bleeding.
but you shall be with me
for every hair
i hesitantly smooth
with suspecting fingers.
i shall not forget.
Bruce Ruston Feb 2015
We sat an’ didn’t like the sweetcorn,
nor the forks, the moon had no quarrel.

The sun had no bite with the wallpaper.
Black, Black the salted air drifted

The colour scented with the taste
of chip’s n’ vinegar

— The End —