Poetry

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the wind blows hard across my coffee table
through geometric shapes where super heated sand once paned my view

tattered textiles now wave cheerfuly with reckless abandon

my coffee table is the kind with the hole in the middle
so i can see every thing underneath

where old magazines have found a place to rest under glass
bearing covetous images of life and
written words that sound strangely like my own voice

stoic in their content
they wait to be passed on
dog-eared pages
whispering forgotten editorials

the wind blows hard across my coffee table
i should close the window

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