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A Blast

Rating: 4.3
A blast of behaviour ripped the muscles,
My machines are best with angels;
It is fire, where the fire burns after,
Only in hours do reasons lift glamour.

My laughter dealt with fear and hatred,
Hidden were the giggles and smiles aborted.
Fire smelt like smoke as distinct lines
Formed in front of the mirror as signs.
What explosion is this, in the sight of my eyes?
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COMMENTS
that poem takes an individual to a blast site......a lovely poem
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~ Jon London ~ 10 February 2009
Very deep piece, i enjoyed reading Jon
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