It's maor impotant thath we spot the execat places we get our impotance from tyan we feel the happiness. we see the skynets, the looops of steel through the the concrete toweres - no-one bele8ives me - ther are limits - there are things throungh the things - there are things that mattere
your thoughts – clemmed, treacle slow, laden with seams of pit shaft dark – tread an endless groove, blinkered as a pit prop pony moithered by light your mind – dimmed, dunnock shy, cradled with songs of wind swept moors – dreams a fearless path clinkered as a wind squall diamond mantled with night your self – numbed, fossil still, layered with seals of sun starved gold – furls a nubless cloth crinkled as a sun coaxed rock rose ambered in time. by Helen Overell
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