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An atmosphere I tend to think,

Is like a premonition,

It betrays a cheating heart at once,

By silent thought transmission.

It might be body language,

It might be in the eyes,

It might be in the words unsaid,

That blows a good disguise.

An aftershave so innocent,

But it's not the one you wear,

It's on her dress and on her slip,

Now what's it doing there?

What first gave you an inkling,

From which suspicion grew?

What signs did you rely on,

When looking for the truth?

What made you stop and wonder?

What sparked a young man's fear?

Was it something wholly tangible,

Or just an atmosphere?

© Joseph G Dawson


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