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John Clare

The wonder of the mundane 
nothing remains the same
 glint, glance, gaze, smile, 
the optimism of that green mile
a myriad of wild flowers sway in the breeze 
look up at the swirling clouds of grey-blue           a reflection of  the unassumed eternity of you.              a side long glance that seeks to cause you hurt 
with the untold gentilities of flirt                                 passing glances, subtle variations in  tone                       the  secret wish not to be alone.

◄ Butterflies Alight

Past imperfect ►

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