A crowd settles like dust on a grave in the theatres week high space
Thick with its nightmare dark thrill, the voices rustle,
The bodies still. Waiting for the wasted temptation.
Sound tires, the ceiling is small as an open fist.
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Out of the sea a dead fish salt sprinkled
Washes onto scratching pebbles, ash emerald,
In bewilderment at it’s dusk-blind fate.
Forgotten eyes whisper of the cliffs,
The sands, the faces just out of sight.
The shadow of its odour lingers like smoke.
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