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The Ghost Forest

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The trees, they whisper of impending doom
Unheard over the grating sound of death
The wind they'll miss in all the gloom
Cool and calm, the comforting breath

They stand tall and still, unable to escape
They have no choice but to simply fall
Crumpling to the ground like a hopeless shape
A one-sided war, to kill them all

The trees sorely miss their familier soil
They dislike travelling near and far
Their departure definately sure to spoil
All living things for what they are

'Tis easy to see that this is wrong
They're pages that poetry is written on





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