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A Roam of Foam
Like Rimbaud’s sleeping soldier,
I saw a man on the grass -
In a torture of gold,
Like the product of a Mad Midas
Made into twisting vines
Wrapped around the heart of
The matter, in an icy
Embrace, rapt in silence -
A slight smile, like a
Refugee from the night into day
Light, dreaming a living
Thing in collections of lunacy
Lead by lunar tides
Into a roam
Of
Foam
Published 3rd Jul 2022
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