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megmoo1999

  • Other Poetry Re: spinning spinning pot

    Spin spin the potters hand subtle flesh been moulded, when paint of olive licks upon me white surfaces turn golden. Full of wine I wait at table, humans sip me ...

    Apr 24, 2011


He began to wonder why he had felt uneasy at all. It was like a man wondering in broad daylight why a dream had appeared so terrible to him at night.
— Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart