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Poetry > A Geography of the Heart

Not Mystical

My soul wears lead boots as it walks through this world
is cold and sure about all it perceives.
My head does not float like a coloured balloon:
it's anchored by sinews tougher than trees.
My heart is a muscle, music-less mass,
driven by blood, not roses, not love.

Published on 13/01/2014

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  L. A. Wolanskyj

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