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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Rust

The tarnish of time
is yellowing the pages
of my library.
Rust is taking the edge
off my tools.
Salt is corroding the stones
left by the beach,
dissolving them.

Yet the sky,
having no precise surface
is blessed with purity.
The numbers I use
are transparently pristine,
without the hosts
they represent.

So life is breaking
and dissolving,
the meaning of life,
a process
of decay and birth,
like a star
shooting through the dark.

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