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David Brydon
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Of The Soul
Her eyes take in the breath of my heart… with each beat – and the clouds weep… when embraced, as does anger and love – these human acts convulsed by change correlated by the bounty of truth or the vision born… by the old seen by the tribes of youth – and in...

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False Hope
She lives… inside his head like a polite memory which weeps into his soul – buried deep this greyed out past… with only the remnants of ruins which remain – a false oasis is a bleak reality or perhaps a parched drink… of false hope.    

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Like A Mother
Mental rips, like folded
paper creases,
wearing on the soul - a forgiveness sot or perhaps... a broken sword or maybe a
mother... the person who
ask..... always if you’re
alright.   But then you
think... the conscious is like a good
heart - but -   a bad li...

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Tranquility
Each breath draws in ink swirling through his lungs latching onto words, then letters dribble… past his lips – but some days…. it’s just moments of acrid, dark blue – expelled hypocrisy, which stains. Closed eyes to breathe again and find… a path to walk – ...

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Of Destitute
She watches – and notes… that he doesn’t fit within the landscape – as leafy thoughts escape discolour….. fade to strip the vines of mind and life – as he joins the quilted desperate warmth of destitute and strife.

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When Life Begins
I enjoy the colour black which shows the contrails ==== of time – a dash of shadow then a space – but as dark as dark is… then the light of light begins to show the close-up seen or been and then that’s when life begins.    

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