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Y Lolfa
My rhymes form in clouds
over the arm chair
beside my note books
and the fire
My lines are captured
and preserved
in the remains of the forest
immortalised on its pulp
My words are held captive awhile
in the bright prison cells
where machines etch their pain
on smooth white sheets
My once quiet thoughts crash
noisily onto the leaves
again and ...
Monday 18th February 2019 9:53 am
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