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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Heat

It’s been a week of heat.
So little rain.
The moon orange with age.
Mist hugging the walls,
a sarcophagus August.
Vanishing roads
with no destination,
no coming or going.
I bury despair in the pillow.

This will pass.
A meteor fell last night.
I saw its trail of light,
a wavering feather,
a warning
that the sky can fall,
a world perish,
time leave its bottle
and wash everything
away.

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