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A quiet revolution in my mind,
Something to hold against the fear.
A seed of terror in a chill,
Nothing of note happens here.
I run away yet towards the end,
Of silent pain and grinding gear.
Machination and pain in subtle phrase,
Said outloud for none to hear.
Muted voice, screaming with held tongue,
We wait held back by failing weir.
For raging war, within and without,
To pass into the long night, ever so near.
Tom Stanley
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