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The Sons
The coil of summer is spent and in the cold, we bruise;
a roll of litmus papers, tears acidic in the night.
Here death knuckles, grit bites - the fever of our jaws as we repent
our steadfast boots, our gallant wooden toys, our rampant
springs of duty. We swallow hard and taste the theft
with every buckle around our waist
and every scar stitched onto o...
Monday 9th November 2009 12:28 pm
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