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This is Class?

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Ash fills up
the clean water once
given to us.
Cigarette fumes
waft through the air.
Seeping into my lungs.
Black.
Volcanic dried lava.
No oxygen.
But the few clovers,
signs of luck,
say that there is
hope here.
Spewing out,
I see what has
become of me.
A metaphorical
high school water fountain.
This is not me,
so I'll cling to
this small gleam of hope.
My clover.





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