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Slow to the Coming
The sun sinks,
the moon rises.
The drinkers drink,
the winner given prizes.
The world still turns though,
the revalvilation have stopped.
In your word at least,
the color seeping through spilt lies.
Don’t cry small child,
Grandmother is slow in the coming.
Traveling to the kitchen,
grabbing her knife.
Sharp and sleek as it is,
still you feel it’s lasting pains.
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