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Reflections
Gordon Bramhall |
Things seem different these days
Like the faint, window pane reflections
apparitions floating by
distorted by rain |
The ghostly silhouettes
pass behind me
as I stare
into store windows
The world seems different
Like waking from a coma
only to find that you have |
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mere days before you die of old age
Could it be that circumstance
is speaking to my subconscious?
Like helper spirits trying to console
me as they warn of future cataclysmic events?
Or could it be that the rain
is not the distorter, it's
that the human race has distorted the view
of simple pleasures like reflections?
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