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ROUND A MIDNIGHT

By Ted Lawrence



The adored texts,

And the heart is filled,

Of which?

I cannot tell,

 

As cold eyes well,

A mind for sleep,

Turns to an old poem,

The swan dance,

 

Tells the story of a dream,

Round a midnight

But for so many midnights,

The plague grows,

 

So the adored,

Becomes the plague,

Although just,

In a sleepy mind.


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