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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Friend

The woman that passed my Mary’s path
came from the street.
Was part and parcel of stone.
A predator who betrayed
my Mary’s heart
and wore a sister’s clothes.
She cost a piece of Mary’s soul,
a piece of faith,
clothed in the coarse guise
of her hardened self.
At once I knew her for
what she was.

In Mary’s world harps are strung
in heaven, all people being harps.
In mine strings break, corrode,
will not always hold a tune,
and must be found, born inchoate
of better stuff.
This woman, out of tune,
a screech, a dissidence,
a friend who never was
or could be,
sadly passes Mary’s path,
with the infirmity
of iron turned to
rust.

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