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Poetry - Untitled Document

A small square of land has been selected,

Signs of something detected,

I quake.

Not at the thought,

All you've brought,

All that will not be,

A reflection of me.

The branches lower down the trunk begin to twist, contort,

They’ve slipped into the ground and sunk,

They're not your sort.

I work against the patterns because you do not fit one.

Late night drinking and hours playing,

Wine and scrabble fill our time,

And in those brief hours you’re mine,

I see it.

The reflection of...

Years of frustration begin to leak from your eyes,

Sliding away - freedom,

Years of delicately planned lies,

This is your bespoke kingdom.

This is not the way I'd thought you'd be, reflection of...

Something in the not too distant future.

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