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teenage love poem

there is no flock, however watched and tended
i fill this cup
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
when night drifts along the streets of the city
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
tripping up, falling down
friend, whose smile has come to be
babylon-where i go dreaming
what spiteful chance steals unawares
in the dark and peace of my final bed

 



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