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Stonepoem.com

July 1, 2005 - A poem about Age

Cold.

Wind,
that dulls.

A selfish air
that doesn’t care.

Rattling me.
Knocking bones.
Cooling heart
like ice sirens
smiling before
the freeze.

Am I so empty?
So… spacious inside,
Why let these fronds
of discontent
take fingerhold
within?

Such spiteful things
thrive in unbound air,
and clutch and ride
on doubts we leave
behind.

Was it you
that started this?

Was it you that passed
through me?

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