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Self Image

by Freda Davis

Full rounded heart,

Eyes that are sore with weeping,

Dark like and arrow piercing,

And ever the hand is writing.

 

You draw yourself, so many new lines.

Role after role you sketch, and toss away.

 

Mind that is ever writing

My own hard epitaphs,

Blaming my eyes for weeping

Over dusty photographs.

 

The past is a well told tragedy

And you a...

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Monday 13th May 2013 12:08 pm

grief   depression   writing poetry

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