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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Score

Someone has to keep track
of the score,
paranoid,
fastidious accountant,
jaded mystic.
How man accounts for himself
in Paradise.

But I,
observing my brothers and sisters,
have given it up.
It was rain one night
that fell on my face.
I looked up in the darkness
and asked,
whose tears are these?

And I wanted
the sound of voices,
someone’s arms around me,
and to see the flowers
that bloomed on a cliff,
without reason,
light,
miraculously coming
from a stone.

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