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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


The soul is an island.
Its boundaries are space,
rain in the afternoon
where sunlight draws its shadow.
How the perfume of love,
jelly, absolute cold
become the walls,
the crooked stone of ancient paths,
words that never leave your mouth.
Your own geography.

Your soul,
where loneliness stays quiet
in the corner,
while you look through collections
of toys, coins,
unusual mundane memories,
and you ask why they accumulate,
turn on and off like lights.
Roses on a table,
a chair you sat on,
a house that marks a street.

In panic sometimes,
you run out of the soul,
you push a boat in the water,
tremble like a dog shaking its coat,
leave the house asking yourself,
where am I going?
And the soul becomes quiet,
a sadness beyond bearing
overtakes your heart.
Or you become invisible,
talk to yourself,
hear your mother calling,
and you listen,
and that is what you are before morning,
something that listens in the dark.

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