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don't let the words die in you
Rose
Friday, January 14, 2011

Patches inked the conurbation
A roaring, sultry golden black
The overload of revelation
Spinning past the railway track
Shoulders heave and chilled wind blows
Her eyes screw shut against the dark
Brumal trepidation grows
But white comes crashing slick and stark
The flowers bend their heads to pray
For the body with the garden of bruises
In the bitter wind, they sway
The grim gravestone her peruses
With every step stacks mounting ire
Smoldering with the spinning tire

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