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May 22, 2016 | by  | in Creative Writing |
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Herne Bay

There were no questions,

just a careful click

of the door. Shut up,

we can’t wake them!

She held my hand

in the blue-black:

prized paintings,

antique vases—

prerequisites

for any Dio Girl.

The night spilled

carelessly in lines

along her skin;

I was far from home.

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Editor's Pick

FUCK ENGLISH, VOTE POEM

: - SPONSORED - The layer of mist over paddocks, delicate and cold; the layer of cows under a silver sun-bleached tree; the hills rising over them and in the distance the whole countryside demarcated by accidental hydrangeas or a gentle river.   All of these layers upon layers