Is there softness in the slowest decay
of blurring lamentations past,
or the gentle end of a frayed photograph
from one too many hasty hands.
Is there subtlety in the murky waters
of flooded pot-hole puddles,
or the grained skin of sea-tossed glass
from one too many shattered nights.
And is there love in the warped wood
of forgotten oak-lined porches,
worn with trails of mud-soaked boots
from one too many dirty children.
And is there any method in telling
a dignified echo from one of defeat.
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About the Creator
Jamie Wilkinson
23 year old writer/poet from Montreal, Canada.
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