as we stand on the island in the middle of the busy road
as you stab me with your finger
accusing me - me!
for the silent, worrying walk
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the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flow...
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for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
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