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Old prophesies
poems of memory
now the center of a wheel
leading off the edge of circles
not wanting to fall in the
cold galactic sea,
My past
is coming back
to remind me of love,
love based on hope and
the hope of love in worn out faces
and boxes of old toys.
Men act on their charts
but my psyche
tired of the rhythm of machines
turns to the oceans and
tales told by the tides,
Where
ancient calendars of moons
measure the rivers flow
and mysterious sundials
cast shadows on a wall.
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