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Dorothy
The lady read me
Now and again,
Though I never knew
Her very well
I knew she had a heart
As big as everything
Out there,
She liked flowers
And roses,
The shape and texture
Of stones,
Loved dogs and Facebook,
Loved Peter and her family
In a very special way,
Sometimes death
Seems so damn final
As we struggle to carry on,
But it’s that whisper no one else hears,
The aroma of perfume and roses,
The invisible touch on your forehead,
On your back, sending familiar shivers
That let you know that there
Never is an ending.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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