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black poetry

those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
often is it not so?
blossoms of babies
i make my shroud, but no one knows
now that i have cooled to you
the earth keeps some vibration going
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
stand here by my side
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
to some the fat gods
i think it just splendid

 



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