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Bob Monkhouse Poem
With the dying light gone, and the new light on;
the switch is turned and the wrench begins.
The silent, silence of looks and smiles,
another year of fear compiles;
removed by one whose touch ignites, the softness of my heart - its buried light.
Please me, or please me not, with hour glass for our's not;
no fake required, no fake to be;
break over me softly - a plea, I plea.
Copyright © Bob Monkhouse | Year Posted 2015
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