One Hundred and Sixty-Three.


Izzy circle


standing on top of a small waterfall, breathing
coming down on you like a pressurised heartbeat
falling and standing tall all at once
this flow like thunder

lush green hills and the smell of dynamic lifter
contemplate the permanence of a park rubbish bin
taking selfies in front of a toy town panorama
break the light with a fist


Sarah circle


It is an unlovely thing, this life of mine
A spider takes no sweethearts, takes no friends
Swoons for nothing but her crystalline web
But what a lover is the night
The crisp cold wind, the earth turning over
The heartbeat percussion of the chattering bugs
And above it all, the sweet white moon
Singing her arias to the clap-a-long stars



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