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a new way of looking at... writings >> carl klouda >> at the edge |
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It exists at the edges of morning, a stillness, aching, alone, where life has paused, framed like a tear, whispered through the night to someone who no longer listens. eyes looking into the distance of memory bring to heart one more breath to utter a word, a confession, a name when the sun breaks the silence, eyes close, and he again remains unknown, forgotten. |