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slam poetry

beside a stricken field
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
stern cold man
soft as the bed in the earth
no prey am i of poor thoughts
i have to say good-night
they in the darkness gather and ask
tell me not
leave the lovely words unsaid
she said
why are the things that have no death
take my bracelets
up from the south at break of day
sleep, gray brother of death

 



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