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"revelling" poems
Woe is the man who revels in romance He must hide his revelling from the world. Never on a bus or plane or train, have you Seen a man reading a romance novel, the Lurid cover compelling the reader to delve Into the protagonists embarrassment of Embraces, between the satin sheets.
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Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
Embarrassment
You have your hammer down, foot stamping Passion Poets, the ones who feel something and like a waterfall similes fall out of their pen and land they are LOUD and they are dynamic, their metaphors are laser beams out of eyes, they are the Crowd Raisers. And you have your hearts open, eyes closed Emotion Poets, the ones who love something like a fountain, spilling over adjectives their words are red, they are heated yellow, they are revelling in that shade of blue that poets hate to love, they are the Heart String Pullers. And then you have... me. I'm an imperfect, writer's block, In Between Poet. my similes are more like a puddle than a waterfall, all the same parts but nowhere near the power, I am LOUD in all the wrong places my metaphors are dead battery laser pointers, I am not a Crowd Raiser. My fountain spills over adverbs quickly dying out my words are sort of... gray, they are not Heart String Pullers. But We are all Poets we are like similes we are comparing our words to something bigger, we are metaphors we find a way to put love into words, put hate into words, jealousy into words. we are adverbs quickly coming to life in all its splendor we are All the Same.
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Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Poets
When our names were smeared with dust and kicked butt-naked into the streets tramped upon, squashed by dancers revelling on the song of our shame We take all in saintly fate Poverty has diverse chairs all which are glued to the heart of hell upon which we sit pipped with jears Our pains for the tithe we never paid untill our lives are almost spent We aren't bearing with us our sack of shame to the land were we shall endly rest Laugh not out of you breathe we shall mend our broken past and pick up the moon we left behind
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Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
Poverty
We were twin-tailed stars, bursting forth from the night. Radiating our warmth, revelling in delight. We were gemstones- Geodes; raw, intwined. Silver faceted rings, wrapped tightly in twine. But as all atoms decay, light dulls and fades. Pulls that were closer now drift away, Oh how I wish. I wish you would stay.
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Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
Universal Attraction
Curious lovers venture within, to the very darkest strands of the spiders ties. Willingly they are seduced there; wrapped, by the temptations of Bliss. Gossamer perfections of silk enchant them to search deeply inside. Beholden eyes lustily devouring Her bejewelled fragile abyss. Revelling in such perfect beauty, they sigh. Weaving amongst silken pleasures, tender touches spin their sense modality. Held in perfect lofty abandonment, they sway entwined, with lips open in whispers calling. Cocooned unison becomes entangled as the softest breeze sends them falling;   Earthbound, ignoring the deadly poison of their reality.
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Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Tangled (Sensual)
She quintessentially embodied the phrase ‘Paragon of beauty’ Perfectly chiselled face Symmetrical features and a smile that could Smoulder one’s heart in a millisecond She had an aura of nonchalance around her And an umbrella delicately balanced over her head Despite it being scorching hot She walked as if in fear of hurting The very ground she trod on Attracting surreptitious glances from passers-by. I stood rooted to the exact spot I had stood ages before In utter awe and wonderment at the breath taking sight I beheld Then out of the blue she appeared to be on the verge of kissing the ground I instantaneously lurched forward to her rescue She, landing appropriately in mine outstretched arms The look on her face * priceless* Discomfiture and fear apparently evident on her face Soothingly I assured her all was indeed well Whilst revelling in the idea that I had come to the rescue Of the exceedingly beautiful lady.
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May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
Stiletto clad damsel in distress.
Dew-kissed morning sunshine's warmest smile starting the morning with you in your arms a while. Sharing thoughts and secrets revealing innermost feelings revelling in our love at daybreak leaves me reeling. Ready to begin the journey where ever love will guide as long as we're together excited to embark upon love's ride.
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Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:01 AM UTC
Daybreak
Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin. Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh. A gin-sung-dream – Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick. An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift And Nature’s perfect curse. Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless. Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON. Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight , Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies Embrace, writing words that have their own Music. Heard only by its two composers. Everywhere the other wishes to be – Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity. Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth As old as the ages. A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning. Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic For loneliness. Hands in hands, heart fleeting. The perfect curse of Man In the stroking of skin. Later, a vague sound of water, a towel A drawer closing – a door latch clicks. The world floods back. Through the curtains, Through the drainpipes Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns, Aching like a hangover. Too much gin. The momentary tonic wears off. Heart in hand, Hand to head. Candlelit premonitions return. Heated flesh. Arching backs. Fingers through hair… Salty fingers through oily hair and Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and A singeing waxy smell makes you reel To the window for air. And there you are again, In the middle of a city that knows you More than your Alcoholic Lover, A Melancholic Mother to all your needs, Except the one you tried to soothe A few hours back. The one you pine for. The one you lack. Oh, this Humdrum City Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet. And your heart in the street And the gin in your glass Whenever you meet Whoever it is that might Make you complete… A vague sound of water, a towel, A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks. Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh. A belt buckle rings, a zip A drawer closing, a door latch clicks. The door latch clicks. The door latch clicks.
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Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
Flesh On Flesh
Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin. Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh. A gin-sung-dream – Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick. An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift And Nature’s perfect curse. Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless. Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON. Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight , Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies Embrace, writing words that have their own Music. Heard only by its two composers. Everywhere the other wishes to be – Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity. Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth As old as the ages. A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning. Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic For loneliness. Hands in hands, heart fleeting. The perfect curse of Man In the stroking of skin. Later, a vague sound of water, a towel A drawer closing – a door latch clicks. The world floods back. Through the curtains, Through the drainpipes Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns, Aching like a hangover. Too much gin. The momentary tonic wears off. Heart in hand, Hand to head. Candlelit premonitions return. Heated flesh. Arching backs. Fingers through hair… Salty fingers through oily hair and Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and A singeing waxy smell makes you reel To the window for air. And there you are again, In the middle of a city that knows you More than your Alcoholic Lover, A Melancholic Mother to all your needs, Except the one you tried to soothe A few hours back. The one you pine for. The one you lack. Oh, this Humdrum City Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet. And your heart in the street And the gin in your glass Whenever you meet Whoever it is that might Make you complete… A vague sound of water, a towel, A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks. Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh. A belt buckle rings, a zip A drawer closing, a door latch clicks. The door latch clicks. The door latch clicks.
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. *"Looking down from ethereal skies Silent crystalline tears I cry For all must say their last goodbye - to Paradise..."* - Paradise Lost by Symphony X *Head buried                           in pillows in the sky,       voraciously consuming the fluffy whites.             Windy fingers                     sieve the air.                                        Watchful eyes                                     tracing tails of kites.     He only hears         the faint hymns                             from the outstretched wings          of feathered birds.             Leans back weightily           on his throne of clouds.         Notions form haphazard in so many words.     Casting his gaze,                willing it earth-bound.             Careless trees sway                        in synchronised tandem.               Diverse songs merge               seamless in harmony.         Singing in unison,                              revelling the gift of freedom.              Silent tears fall                          and trickle as rain...                   As he reminisces                                        the images of his forsaken past.        Scored paintings of a paradise lost.   All must say                           their final goodbyes...                   He will bid his,                               last.*                                                .
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Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
Paradise Lost
. *"Looking down from ethereal skies Silent crystalline tears I cry For all must say their last goodbye - to Paradise..."* - Paradise Lost by Symphony X *Head buried                           in pillows in the sky,       voraciously consuming the fluffy whites.             Windy fingers                     sieve the air.                                        Watchful eyes                                     tracing tails of kites.     He only hears         the faint hymns                             from the outstretched wings          of feathered birds.             Leans back weightily           on his throne of clouds.         Notions form haphazard in so many words.     Casting his gaze,                willing it earth-bound.             Careless trees sway                        in synchronised tandem.               Diverse songs merge               seamless in harmony.         Singing in unison,                              revelling the gift of freedom.              Silent tears fall                          and trickle as rain...                   As he reminisces                                        the images of his forsaken past.        Scored paintings of a paradise lost.   All must say                           their final goodbyes...                   He will bid his,                               last.*                                                .
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Curious lovers venture within, to the very darkest strands of the spiders ties. Willingly they are seduced there; wrapped, by the temptations of Bliss. Gossamer perfections of silk enchant them to search deeply inside. Beholden eyes lustily devouring Her bejewelled fragile abyss. Revelling in such perfect beauty, they sigh. Weaving amongst silken pleasures, tender touches spin their sense modality. Held in perfect lofty abandonment, they sway entwined, with lips open in whispers calling. Cocooned unison becomes entangled as the softest breeze sends them falling;   Earthbound, ignoring the deadly poison of their reality.
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Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 5:26 AM UTC
Tangled (Sensual)
Not merely soulmates, matched and equal, but two halves of the same soul incomplete without the other. Intricately woven links, platinum meshing with layered silver. Breath-stealing, life exuding, divine. 'Oh, the tales that will be told of this love.' Hesitant, wondrous and cheerful, the strings of unstructured consciousness circle. Living, imagining and eternal. Revelling. Crisp, pure and untainted joy.
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Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
To encircle and embrace
We like to dance Feet moving in a trance Transition to a different stance All of us jump and prance We get in a groove People’s rhythmic motion is smooth The head banging is proof Dancer’s enjoying the beat and ***** With Deejay YouTube on rotation Music revives the good sensation As boys and girls pair up to charleston The vibe is lively in Camden Everyone is revelling In the style of crip walking Zimmer frames towards the ceiling As the old start break dancing
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Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Dancing By Raul M Murray Friday 10 June 2016
Tonight, thinking on you, My mind is ablaze, fully illuminated, Akin to a fabled city swinging in festival, You light me up inside, and I glow brightly, Bathed within the warmth of your sweet love. Tonight, thinking on you, My heart is dancing the greatest dance, Revelling, an unbridled pleasurable release, Passionate love flowing freely in our kisses, Smooching, swaying, in each other's embrace. Tonight, thinking on you, Our spirits are riding upon crazy horses, Galloping over moonlit plains, racing the stars, Our nakedness glistening with heady scents, Mind, hearts and spirits, subtly joined as one. Tonight, thinking on you.
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Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Tonight
*Being in love with your best friend's partner is like revelling in the destruction of a tsunami. You watch the waves roll and weave their way through the closing sky and yet you stand boldly on the beach front - Arms open and eyes closed The feeling of cracking wide inside you, but you're a ********* and the pain is your drug, the only antidote to the touch of The forbidden fruit. Being in love with your best friend's partner is like tearing open all your bandaged wounds, just to let the salt rub them dry again and again and Again.*
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Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 7:50 AM UTC
The Salt in My Wounds
plot out distances between freckles and count the amount of hairs; in a beauteous analysis a cold witnessing of)a featured lifeless gaze projected onto windows refracted in time with the pounding from lost soulless ghouls in a dank puddled basement as we stare through keyholes the length of life waits to rescind to wash up on the shoreline anew, once refreshed with Angina on wading in cyclic waves in deposits of reveries stale orangeade sonatas and dull area tirades the purpose economized every axiom americanized and as your atoms become depersonalized tension is materialized, in ornate ivory shattered brass instruments rusted by novels written to god in a fractured light and range cramped in a curtailed distance a brickwall deadend universe gnashing with frustration ****** yawns of futility closed viaducts and vacant lots deafened eyes, grey glimmering in retort to their own expression blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid wishing to pull you back (in hindsight) with dreaded, deadened incantations a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft in irksome quarrels and arguments glossed over by the fine print of another exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons and revelling every inadmissible mistake gazing past to a solo star dumbstruck and dead from an evaluation and dehydration dying to know forget it.
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Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
the direst, driest dissolution
plot out distances between freckles and count the amount of hairs; in a beauteous analysis a cold witnessing of)a featured lifeless gaze projected onto windows refracted in time with the pounding from lost soulless ghouls in a dank puddled basement as we stare through keyholes the length of life waits to rescind to wash up on the shoreline anew, once refreshed with Angina on wading in cyclic waves in deposits of reveries stale orangeade sonatas and dull area tirades the purpose economized every axiom americanized and as your atoms become depersonalized tension is materialized, in ornate ivory shattered brass instruments rusted by novels written to god in a fractured light and range cramped in a curtailed distance a brickwall deadend universe gnashing with frustration ****** yawns of futility closed viaducts and vacant lots deafened eyes, grey glimmering in retort to their own expression blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid wishing to pull you back (in hindsight) with dreaded, deadened incantations a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft in irksome quarrels and arguments glossed over by the fine print of another exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons and revelling every inadmissible mistake gazing past to a solo star dumbstruck and dead from an evaluation and dehydration dying to know forget it.
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Revelling in your disfunctionality Your interesting complexity And the one thing You are proud of is that you have nothing to be proud of And the one thing that you value Is that you value nothing
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Apr 6, 2010
Apr 6, 2010 at 2:16 AM UTC
I Don't Get You
Under the naked tree They saw each other drenched in silver moonlight Revelling in a mad dance of love Echoing moans through the night Two lost souls Had found one another To lose themselves To each other They'd found their spot Where not a being would intervene So there, they reunited, each night Sparking a silent fire, in this place so serene Under the naked tree Revelling in each other's sight Began a mad dance of love Echoing moans through the night Tides rose, and winds spooked passers-by As from him, sweet kisses, she stole A soul, free from the binds of its corpse Had just found another, to make her a whole
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Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
Naked Tree
They lose their lives to small hates so easily that you wonder if they are allergic to love. Perhaps these gangsters, revelling in their roadsters, go banging in their round pools of darkness to shut out the light, light so bright that it will reveal something sick about themselves. Their hair is so slick that it shines in the headlights and warns them to step away, find the shadows, a place that is far far away from cops and gallows. I thought myself a gangster once, true, tossing teens to the ground to grab their shoes; breaking windows with heads to see bleeding prism hues. But I learned otherwise when I found you: I discovered that life is a measured destruction of time already, so I renounced my life so small in order to **** myself in minutes rather than bullets and enjoy each and every doddering slip -- each and every juddering rise and fall as we watch the future play out having already gambled it all.
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May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
Their hair so slick
Fondling with care Always in your shoes Teaching you life Hosting you to your aim Elevating you with pain Revelling in your growth Happy Father's Day !
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Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
Father's Day
atop merlion at sentosa park revelling upon the map of singapura george boole mutters ditch the crude decimal byways as he pointed to the binary hi way atop merlion at sentosa park
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Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC
Boolean wonder
You know what's harder than falling for the bad guy? Falling for the others The seemingly nice ones The good guys The signs are all there afterall, Everyone can't stop raving about how wonderful he is The ideal nice guy And for a moment Just one moment of blindsidedness You believe it You let it consume you Revelling in the positives Lacing together each moment spent together Into a beautiful story The perfect beginning, middle and end Designed intricately by yours truly A potential work of art Destined for greatness perhaps Isn't it? The pride of your masterpiece destroys you Engulfing your sense of reality Blinding you from the truth The falsehood of it A piece that depicts nothing Nothing but an illusion Another dimensional reality One you don't  live in And probably never will And sometimes In those rare moments of silence It comes back The crushing harsh reality Your foolhardy choices laid bare And you admit Quietly to yourself For who else can your true self be revealed to? Maybe Just maybe you were wrong Those masterful strokes of perfection The gleaming knighthood of it all Just a lie? A veil drawn over your sense of truth So strong it blinded you Completely Drowning you in its falsehoods The shores of reality no more than a distant memory You know what's worse than falling for the bad guy? Falling for the right one.
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May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
The Nice Guys
apostle of balloons chases its playful shadow across the neatly trimmed lawn revelling in its quick foot and then stops short of the pavement as the balloons laughter heads for the distant sky apostle of balloon sits there on the curb waiting for its joy to return his eager eye scans the ever distant sky but that shadow now lay entangled in treetop miles distant trapped by the nature of the world ever a child's dream we await the next balloon to entice us upwards on onwards chasing dreams of laughing joys
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Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
laughing joys
I hear you calling me whispering softly blowing my hair gently a featherlike touch on my face I hear you calling me in my dreams silencing my screams shushing my troubles away I hear you calling me in tranquil times smiling benovently revelling in my good moments I hear you calling me always I hope I hear you always I miss you always I love you Grandad always
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Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
I Hear You
It's gone. I've checked. I know. But then, it never was much. Made mostly of scraps; A rough frame of old bush lumber; Walls of flattened fuel cans and lime coated hessian; A roof of corrugated iron, battered and rusting. Scorched by searing summer heat; Blasted by dust storms; Chilled by winter frost. Insubstantial against the vastness of desert that stretched in every direction from the tiny bush town. But it was home. Within its walls were love and care. At its table were sustenance and conversation. For three years we lived there when I was a boy. I'd rise early and sit on the edge of the gibber plain with our dog watching the sunrise. One morning I heard the jangling of hobbled camels returning to town from a night in the desert. On another, there were herds of cattle, walked in from an outlying station for drafting and yarding, then transport southward in a train hauled by a small steam engine. At the stock-yard we'd pretend to be cowboys, prodding the cattle in the loading race with sticks, revelling in the dust and noise, caring little for their terror or their destination. One day we hiked out past the stock cemetery, of carcasses leering sightless, scavenged by crows. We trudged to the red sand hills, then back to the rail-line for a ride home with the fettlers. We went barefoot often - foot-soles like leather from the searing sand. In the heat of the day we'd pause in the scant shadow of a bush, to choose the next meagre patch of shade, then run like the wind to roll on our backs, waving scorched feet in the air. It's still all there in my memory. Every few years I take the old track north, just to check, to experience again, to remember. Other than the vastness of the desert, it all seems smaller now - one tiny settlement within the compass of an unbroken horizon. The old house is just a memory. It's gone. I've checked. I know. But then, it never was much.
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Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
A bush childhood
It's gone. I've checked. I know. But then, it never was much. Made mostly of scraps; A rough frame of old bush lumber; Walls of flattened fuel cans and lime coated hessian; A roof of corrugated iron, battered and rusting. Scorched by searing summer heat; Blasted by dust storms; Chilled by winter frost. Insubstantial against the vastness of desert that stretched in every direction from the tiny bush town. But it was home. Within its walls were love and care. At its table were sustenance and conversation. For three years we lived there when I was a boy. I'd rise early and sit on the edge of the gibber plain with our dog watching the sunrise. One morning I heard the jangling of hobbled camels returning to town from a night in the desert. On another, there were herds of cattle, walked in from an outlying station for drafting and yarding, then transport southward in a train hauled by a small steam engine. At the stock-yard we'd pretend to be cowboys, prodding the cattle in the loading race with sticks, revelling in the dust and noise, caring little for their terror or their destination. One day we hiked out past the stock cemetery, of carcasses leering sightless, scavenged by crows. We trudged to the red sand hills, then back to the rail-line for a ride home with the fettlers. We went barefoot often - foot-soles like leather from the searing sand. In the heat of the day we'd pause in the scant shadow of a bush, to choose the next meagre patch of shade, then run like the wind to roll on our backs, waving scorched feet in the air. It's still all there in my memory. Every few years I take the old track north, just to check, to experience again, to remember. Other than the vastness of the desert, it all seems smaller now - one tiny settlement within the compass of an unbroken horizon. The old house is just a memory. It's gone. I've checked. I know. But then, it never was much.
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