July 10, 2011

Yours.

I stepped from the pavement onto the snow,

The memories yet to be seemed frozen,

Yet to grow, flowed like treacle in a swamp of

Grime, iron fringed orange overhung it all through

The passage of time which I didn’t have, waiting

For a public bus. It’s ours.


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    11 Jul 2011, 07:47


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