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So Slow

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Chasing pigeons on sand
Watching seagulls on land
As they fly on the wind
like a goodbye.

Old things, like the fabric of hope
she hangs from a rope
falling down the wide slope
full of purple.

Laughing, down the river of tears
she rests her head here
for another odd year
crawling by her.

Sailing, with her head in the clouds
she wakes up and pouts
At her dress ripped to shrouds
On the sidewalk.

Night falls, when you see how they run
Shooting birds from a gun
To the head of the sun
till the morning.




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