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Paul Grimsley

The cloying stuff of soured dreams
Gums the head together as a skull cleaves
Under the machete blade of a Damocles --
The jewel at the umbilical end
And the future which you see depend
From such a narrow thread as a choice,
Where ears are turned from a forming voice,
The conch shell of your fractured heart,
By resonances being torn apart,
Sees an end before it dreams a start
And shadows imply they have truths to impart,
But after long and difficult miming
The tear-dimmed eyes will see light shining
And know what seems is a seam indeed.

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