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THE LAST HOUR
By Quentin Smith
Harps of fire are flashing in the mirror,
Broken angel wings crowd the room
Gathering dust,
The darkest blackest night behind the moon
Comes flooding like water about my feet,
I totter insanely and fall across a chair
Breaking its back,
The sound crashes like a hatchet
Through the splinters of my head . . .
I am gone, winding
In the alleys of the sun.
Written 1973
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