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poetry

The tiny hours

In the tiny hours that scour the faces of
clocks between the twelves and the sixes
I am lost to the silken ephemera
Of memories shifted to fantasies
Slipped to hopes skidded to night terrors

Ever-changing images;
Ever-changing desires;
Fairies and water sprites
Dragons and hydra

Lost in that twisting crack
Between reality and something real
I wait for that clock to strike
Six times
And set me free

 

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About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.

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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

March 2014
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