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A Remote Hut of Daub and Wattle
Thoughts like entries in a old maritime log;
They're kenneled on a shelf like a dog;
From a ship; dry docked in a bottle,
Within a remote hut; of daub and wattle,
In my mistakes, perhaps there were no lessons found worth learning;
My mind keeps them in a structure; that could so easily be set to burning
I have no desire; to become someone I don't understand
So many that were close to me; have let that foul demon, get the upper hand;
So good is the chance, my memories will be gone historically; without a trace;
Their discovery won't be fulfilled; until there's a ghost, standing in my place
Copyright ©
Anonomus Scorpio
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