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part 3: Parallel Lines

Shackled in a cell with memories that smother my clothes

I escape to walk the walk of an aimless man,

on pitted path and sun soaked street,

searching for my cul-de-sac.

With time running away like the parallel lines below me

and only the distant thunder

of a freight train for company,

I sit alone, on a bridge of humpbacked stone,

the whiff of anaesthetic  fresh from the trust removed

by the skill of a surgeons blade.

I could so easily take my place

among the gods and poets,

the charlatans and the fakes,

supping with the sinners

and the gamblers on the take.

From Water’s Edge by Dave Young and Juliet Adele. To post comments go to’s edge


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