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Slice Of Time
by Deborah Russel

He still writes
poems of white,
on winter lawn,
where words fall silent
in the dawn.
Though a memory
creeps across the soul,
like an autumn leaf
across the lawn,
its complex curves
and entangled verbs
seem to strangle
every word.
His mechanical pen
so well rehearsed -
wrote calculated,
repeated verse.
And all those poems
that were exhaled -
as truth prevailed.
His romantic words -
incantations of peace
could not stand defeat
and the test of time.
All his poetry
began to stumble
and fall out of rhyme.
His pen became
an implement of pain
his love revealed
a mere refrain.
His hallmark
was a slant of dark.
In the midnight hour
his love's dependent
on his lover's power.
He still continues
through the night
waiting for a poem
of light,
his pen is useless
the implement of pain
his poetry's invisible
in the falling rain.
In a severing slice
of Time, reality
divides reason
and rhyme,
Truth is stripped
from useless lust
and his love
is crumbled
into dust.

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