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distance
by louise arnold
11.8.04
writing

Time slows to treacle, heavy days,
Sighing clocks with arthritic hands,
Hours notched in growing lines
Around cloudy, tired eyes.
They told her, in those faded cards
That clutter up the mantepiece,
They told her time would heal the wounds,
A cliche handed down and down,
But each dawn that crawls up in the sky
Is one dawn further away from you.


ABOUT LOUISE ARNOLD

A work in progress.

more about louise arnold

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