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Jazz Poetry

Brilliant Corners

By Published: April 24, 2010
The last words of his hero still echoed in his ear but they brought no inspiration as there was a fear he had misinterpreted them. I met myself ten years from now on the Rue Grand Augustin.

He did not have the patience to answer questions that he thought unimportant. Rolling his eyes at me; yes, I still hated throwing a hat away no matter how worn out it was.

Looking at his watch he cut me short, telling me not to worry, I would never forget her kiss nor vendetta.


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