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The Blind WatchMother.

Just for this decadent Summer
I will learn the dandelion smile.
I may be the witch of Ipswich.
No longer hidden in the vault of bile.
I worship at the temple of the Gods.
From sad soulled Hercules, heartfelt Bran.
To some I am no longer pure.
To me, I am like the waters of Aberfan.
I have survived the sharks.
And the devil has ridden out.
I have superior depressive courage.
A witch is what I am I shout.
Without mercy, I return to the painted house.
To declare that I am the wizard of my fate.
I weave magic to stop unravelling.
Blossoming as a product of your hate.
Time is a pressurised illusion.
I was an actor in your purple house.
Out of reach of your voice.
I become more than your mouse.
So I’ve swallowed all those tears.
Amongst those who don’t set me apart.
Creeping out to become alive.
Hall of mirrors hold my true heart.
Seven years on the mysterious tracks.
Towards the nightside of heaven
You ask me what have I done?
Found my soul in those seven.
This is not a love letter.
Or a girl throwing out her toys.
I am a woman seduced by life.
The beauty in pagan boys.
I have stopped selling the drama.
I alone please myself not you.
Lightning crashes into the black ocean.
I know it is time to say good bye.


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