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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


There is so much doubt in me.
I doubt the sky
because it rises while I fall.
It flames with fire
while I freeze.
I doubt the altar of wood and flowers
because no story should be that sad,
no such goodness murdered.

It never happened in my country,
where I walked,
shared fellowship with others.
It never happened
because there is no grief that great,
joy perhaps,
but I asked how could that happen?
It can’t!

My hand made a shadow on the wall,
like a spider crawling to the floor,
and I insisted,
it never happened!
The shadow detached itself from my hand
and flew through the window
like a ghost.

I waved my arm,
and questioned what was
curled up inside me
that disappeared?
How light my heart became!
Was faith stronger than any evil
it confronts?
Was a prayer inside me

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