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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Child in Me

There is fog outside.
A spring fog in November.
A day before the pieces
are brought together.
Light passing through
the walls of the world.
Trees disengaged in a
remorseful gray.
I disown this caretaker
of winter stories,
looking for dreams.

Creation is penned inside me.
Every atom ticking to eternity.
While I am changeless,
out there,
in that drab world,
the world is burning out,
and I refuse to join it,
thought by thought I am
as remarkable as a star,
as self created as a god.
I am a child of another place
embraced by what I know.

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