Literary Work
Nothing Falls New HARRIS COVERLEY
A jammed thumb Is not the same as a broken one Although it can hurt as much Lost love is not the same As love unrequited But the pain is just as real It is the season of decay Scuttling human endeavour The rust hangs heavy on the walls The dust gathers in the corners The toothbrush bristles pull apart A piano slowly plays somewhere Outside is the perfect day For mistaking a crisp packet Blown by the wind For a crawling rodent
sirylok
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