The Poet

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If I do not write

I will die at the Devil’s gate

waiting for him to scold me

like a child

the wooden spoon given as a gift

from one who has decided not to breathe anymore

I write as one gasps for air

after lingering under the waves for too long

wading through the ocean foam

my hands carving letters into the sand

before the tide takes them away

I long to etch them deep

so that these words will stay

a maddening dash of pure expression

along the shore of some nameless beach in Wollongong

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