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| No mattter how often I mould your face the reality is you're gone I form and pat you into shape immortal under my fingertips until I have that image in the clay the look of death an everlasting photograph etched in my mind sunken cheeks, caved in eyes anguished face that once held joy now lost to disease and buried lives once more in a piece of clay. copyright Jane F Chapman March 2002 |
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| A Piece of Clay? |
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