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grubby grists of euphuistic prolixity

Monday 3 May 2010

Inescapable

I hurtle through the tunnels seeking haven
While behind the silent predators give chase
My ragged breath and clattered feet resounding
Stale air gives way to fresh upon my face
Just ahead I see the door of dazzled morning
Dissolved in red, for I have lost my futile race
Posted by Philip Damian-Grint at 21:00
 
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