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Poetry
Top voted Poetry
#416821voted by our readers
By Anonymous
Not even dust, This stuff is too fine. A ground, sifted powder Flying free from the hands That grasp it hungrily. But to no avail, it seems. It escapes through the tiny crac...
Not even dust, This stuff is too fine. A ground, sifted powder Flying free from the hands That grasp it hungrily. But to no avail, it seems. It escapes through the tiny crac...