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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Bored

I looked into a bag for words
to write. Empty.
I sat by the window looking for
people to pass.
The street was a wayfare of
silent walls. Empty.
I looked to the sky for a weather
report.
A blank blue. Empty.
The paper had no news except
the breathing of people,
the sale of goods.
Invisible wind. Empty.
And for once in my life I longed
for an earthquake, a storm,
catastrophe, to stir things up,
to make empty go away.

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