The Place.

March 11, 2011
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Cindered remains
Grew in the Valley
The cremated mountains spiked
Out of the ground forming a cradle of death

In the beginning
A land flourished and thrived
But slowly wilted, withered
And faded in the darkness

This barren wasteland
Clung to old meanings
With values and
Hues attached and attacked

Just before a point
Of death
The land cried
And so did its sinners
A great secret and a
Great worry once
Dueled here

Salmon swim upstream
To go back
And lay their eggs
Never to return

An ancient man sat in the ash
His face muddied by a preference
For evil
He wore a veil
Of concealment
And would never return
To the cradle






There were no more
Children, only the immoral and malicious
A hopscotch game is illuminated
In the dying light, chalk sticks lay
Where they fell when the children were called
Away


An endless abyss
Of wickedness lingered
As with the profanity
Left on faces and walls

The trembling eyes of old
Women remained
Never to be reincarnated
Never to live





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