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Singed edges, ancient pages, 
faded vellum paled by time,
the ever growing patina of our dreams, 
there written in the minds of every man and woman, 
this secret book of words, not ever spoken, 
allowed to be quite silent, still, unbroken, 
what gems, what horrors, 
what is hidden from out eyes, a wealth of thoughts 
that always come to nought, 
and yet their meanings have been useful now and then, 
when needed by the host; 
perhaps becomes the language of our ghosts.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 


beautiful who know's what goes on inside x

Thank you sueb, its all a great big mystery isn't it, and food for poetry,
we thrive on the wonder of life, at least I do.
Thank you, Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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