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Poetry by Tom Stanley
 


 

 
Frayed

 

The rope is frayed,
Like my very last nerve.
I can almost sense and remember,
every single curve.
I try to shut you out,
Yet in you creep,
Bringing back that
Which makes me weep.
I feel so bad,
I cannot compare it.
I must clear my mind,
But I must grin and bear it.

© Tom Stanley

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