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The grip of the breeze, the smell of charcoal,
a memory drifting on by, sitting on
an icy bench.
Little girls in flowered dresses,
mothers chasing strident sons,
skies dimmed by over grown trees.
Across the street the rhythmic drops
of a basketball tangle with laughter;
The second sin all too consuming.
Throwing back a stray ball and
brushing a skimmed knee.
Your tobacco smell is in, on, everything;
fleeting sounds, fighting, struggling, to
be heard.



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This article has 4 comments. Post your own!

AnimaCordis said...
Nov. 21, 2011 at 12:12 am:

Wow! I like this! 

I really like how you've made the sounds sound as though they are desperate to be heard. It makes the whole memory seem like a living creature.

 
Danealle replied...
Nov. 23, 2011 at 3:50 pm :
ha thank you! It took me forever to write this! :)
 
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Signed_DK said...
Nov. 11, 2011 at 3:49 pm:
I like the hidden meaning behind it and the up close meaning that anyone can find! Keep writing.
 
Danealle replied...
Nov. 11, 2011 at 3:53 pm :
Thank you!
 
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