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Poetry & Prose
by
Linda Boutet
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Tramp
His tangled black hair
Rests in shock upon his head.
A wreath, in memorium
To past beauty.
Sweeping out in tendrils
Used now, to frequent shaking
As he argues
With himself.
Gripped constantly
Pulled, by tentacle. fingers
Washed only by the rain.
©2005 LH Boutet
This page is owned and maintained by Linda H M Boutet. All
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