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Sour and slovenly old words
from memory ambling across
the otherwise quiet of my reveries.
I hold a grudge against a past
that changed its course
without warning. Sometimes
I still hear what was said,
designed to hurt as deeply
and permanently as possible,
and think about the bridges
they set fire to. Camouflaged
among sticks and stones
were death threats and
the death traps of intention;
I have been broken in places
deeper than bones.

Image from “Flutterby, Carton House”
by photographer Paula O’Hara


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