December 10, 2009
The dead tree withers
Like the butterfly releasing
From its dark cocoon
The gun kicks strongly
But the fire stops pouring out
From the hose outside
Black pointed sharpie
Draws a sad broken image
Of a wounded hawk
Wolves attacked violently
The helpless out numbered bear
He gave one last growl
Golden boys leg brakes
All his hard work thrown away
By a quick mistake

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