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Untitled Poem #1

May 17, 2015

In the midst of a storm of words, a tempest conjured to confuse and cast asunder,

One can only hope that these convulsions are the death throes of a sick animal.

Not the proverbial swan song of dignity and grace, but a rabid beast, with deadly disease.

As the time draws near, the sound grows louder, and hope is a poor understudy to action.

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