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Post by Ivan Carswell on Feb 5, 2012 17:42:39 GMT -5
A bare moment’s cleanliness warns of imminent death; no question that virtue comes at the obtuse end of a duster wielded deftly – there are no accolades to ring in this room swept clean of poetic debris, no carolling a desk conscience-clear, of farewells to hook and feather littered aspirations
But eyes feast on space wondrously free of disparate signs someone else lived here – discarded skin cells and detritus of defoliate hair, of oblique insights estranged, compliments to order as change achieves holiness © 5 February 2012, I. D. Carswell
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