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Sunday, 19 December 2010


Time ticks,
stocks twitch,
a sharp itch,
scratching the heart strings,
diaphonous wings,
of trusting,
thrusting ideas of safe things,
fine things, yet no rings.
No rings; so wrong,
I bumble and stumble,
becoming beheaded,
through the dreaded,
dented unsplendid,
untimely passing,
due to crashing?
Waiting and blaming,
whitting outside me,
the chaos unseen,
from their infernal machine.
The truth exudes,
precludes doom.
So, waiting, facing hatred,
pernicious forgiveness,
forgets my own sickness,
my fedupness, distrustness,
In the hostile smile of I.

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