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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Muse

He sits in the corner
on the floor,
with his knees up.
He peeks over them.
Watches me.
Of all the incomprehensibles
I am the worst.
The universe does not know
what to do with him.
I do not know what to do with him.
He seems unaware of pain,
but his eyes have the brightness
of tears,
of fascination.

He is unmarked by time.
Just a boy,
determined to stay where he is.
Of course he will die.
As soon as I wake
he will be gone.
There is nothing I can do
to budge him from his place,
except thank him for his imagination,
and mourn where he stays.

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