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Michael World

The shard of glass in the London sky.

I'm standing by the John Keats statue,
Thinking if only he had eyes,
The sights he would have seen,
Since dark evolving times,

The crane it moves
so gently
forming shadows over walls,
they weep with discolour,
only moss upon the grooves.

the bell, O how it hollers
in a tired crackled voice,
like an old man with regret,
but the old man has no choice.

The clunks and sounds of crashes
as the Shard does rise,
gazing over London
absorbing all its life.

[...] Read more

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