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By Mary E. Adair

Sometimes we know that the meter's not right,

But the words that arrived, came through a fight

Dripping their meanings like blood on the page;

Some stains will fade out, yet others will age.

But getting them in line, each in its place,

Can be such relief as they fill the space.

Out of the void, they speak in one's head

From future scenes, or echoes from the dead.

Words not ours, they occasionally seem,

Words that conversed in a half-awake dream,

Bringing their own message forth to the world

Like rocks that a child defiantly hurled,

Hitting us like punches below the belt,

While others are the kindest touch yet felt.

But come, they do, and there's never a pause,

So we record them, because? Just because.

copyright.10/24/2000.Mary E. Adair

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