In the hands of who.A Poem by andrew mitchell
We'll never know
what time, it is really, for there will always be those who play with the hands of time. He who holds the stick that points the way not necessarily the one who leads. For there are those without sticks that carry stones that move forward - a rolling stone gathers no moss, a stagnant mind drowns in a dead pool. Sticks and stones may break your bones and the words will hurt you, but it was the paper cut that ran the deepest so the newspaper read. © 2020 andrew mitchellReviews
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2 Reviews Added on April 5, 2020 Last Updated on April 5, 2020 Authorandrew mitchelladelaide, AustraliaAboutStrindberg said. " When I come home and sit at my writing table, then I live.... I live, and I live in manifold fashion of all human beings. I depict; I am glad with the glad, wicked with the wicked,.. more..Writing
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