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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Sunset

It is hard to speak
at dusk.
Day takes something
of myself away.
There is a strange darkness
in the candlelight,
my unused remains.

Only sleep puts me
together again.
It is planetary destiny,
day and night.
One is not the other.
In time’s geometry
we are split in two.
Dream sleep is not daytime bright.
Which one am I
is never quite decided.
When I die
which one hurts more?

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