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Hands sweep soundlessly

Like a besom across a courtyard

Hidden in some distant town,

Yet revealed in the faded glory of a silent movie;

And my chest aches –

A longing for them to slow –

To stand still and dream

Of futures swept away,

Gone before their embryonic faces take shape;

Forms that will not see the beauty

Or cling to despair with knuckles whitened,

Eyes that will not water

A silent cry for life;

And my flesh heavy hangs on a frame

Oppressed and absolved in equal measure,

As another hand brushes clean the pillow

And flattens away my presence,

And the silence of the film plays on.

 

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