November 12, 2011
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Leaves are slowly
Like drops of human blood
From a fatal wound
Covering the cold ground

That one colored crimson red
Like the stained water
That washed onto that small beach in France

That one is murky brown
The color of the dirt
And mud children shift through

Another is blazing orange
The licking flames that darkened
The symbol of our freedom

Slowly spiraling down that one
Still green
Is just as dead

We see problems we rake
The old ones far behind us
Pain and trouble and sorrow
Will haunt us every day
As life once rich with happiness

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