Rebecca Martin
on a rooftop
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In the hands of mystic minds
Musings
Words that might offer meaning
Last night behind forlorn walls
In the silence I saw it all
Sharpened knives for bleeding hearts
On a roof top
Over street lamps
Thereâs a garden in an inkwell
I wonder how deep Iâm in
Or which way Iâll be directed
North or south
East or West
The sum of perfect design
Words are ruthless
Deeds are land mines
On the rolling hills of the pages