Writ 5

May 30, 2017
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I couldn't tell you
how she dressed,
how she danced

I couldn't tell you
how she struggled,
how we laughed

I can still hear her screams
of distress

as the mountains moved, as
I bloomed
I got an old jukebox and had it

an ounce of music everyday
one for the sores,
the next for air

He saw us standing there

-Where am I headed?
-A place we've dreaded

I've erected a solitary obelisk
in this field of disdain

moving with the breeze
carried along with rampant
gushes of blood and

I didn't mean it

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