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"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Adele Evershed


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There Are No Angels In The North

Every revolution ends with rusting images
A flummery to swinging dongs with their wrecking balls
Yet grass grows even in the hurtful trenches and darkened pits
And the horror of hand thrown walls full of rubble
Is just a place to perch as you pour your tea


Maybe you should shave your head and be done with it
Like a holy penitent or a prison inmate—we all sleep in cells
As our cells die and replace themselves—ourselves
Until our blood runs to rust
And we are only an image on the mind's eye of our legacies
Formed by our own swinging dongs and wrecking balls
A flummery to our immortality
But hopefully more meaningful than a bald rusting angel stuck on a hill