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Poetry

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The last syllable
of your poem
ran to the edge of the page
And you say I'm deaf
I say I don't hear you

But I do hear you,
I speak to you
You just don't hear me out
I hear you
I listen

But you don't

I should warn you
That in the end
There will only be me,
A keyboard,
Cigarettes
And the thought in the back of your head

Asking when spring
Will come





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