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 Robert Hayden Pursell at www.poetrypoem.com/rhp

Blowing across the block of ridged hate I find a spot of clear cool on which to rest.

Cool moments rare here now at this time of hot destruction within and without.

Within are the flames of inner toil to torture your very being into a heated temple of hate.

With flashes of direct fire and brimstone bleaching my skin white with heat.

Torrid times to be alive if alive I am or is this a dream of my future...


Robert Hayden Pursell






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