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Ron
My back is pressing against a Stone wall, low and crusted like Bread. Occasionally I rise up, My hair moves about, I smell horses Off in the distance. They will ride Through me long before... More »
Ron
New Moon But there's nothing there, It's paleness somewhere Between memory and possiblity. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I should Look more carefully into that blackness. Maybe it's growing from a speck of night lint. Maybe... More »
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