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Paraphrase

A paraphrase is shadow's child,
slinking in hallway white tiled.
It wears the shape, fills not the skin,
Echoes of fullness are lost within.

It carries a bag of phrases worn,
Tired entrails of the still-born.
A life, once full, is now gone. 
With no meaning counted on.

Copyright © John Anderson

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Book: Reflection on the Important Things