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Sunday, 8 January 2017

Poem: Debris of Happiness

Every word has become tiny stud, 
Of pain, threading through my heart. 
Every dream I awaken to, 
Is a nightmare of your receding back. 

I've slowly forgotten about your touch, 
Warm with passion or cold as sleets; 
The mirrors show me the very eyes, 
You used to look into my soul with.  

How did the spell shatter, 
Leaving me with debris of happiness? 

Copyright © 2016 thearcticstar

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