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by Strider Marcus Jones

mirror, mirror,
in the hall
age comes to us all,
and looks wither
through the play
of years slipped away,
in the lapsed lingo of street
and road,
where tangents meet
and move with innocence
up summits of experience
whose fruits we eat
then weep
when they implode.
these reflections
in this autumn of adventurous directions,
mean more
standing in the door
of ebb and flow
watching people come and go
wearing introspections
of what they know
after listening to a stranger’s small confessions
on midnight radio.
Posted by David Evans

David Evans, Feature Editor
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