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scythe

by Stuart Buck

He came to my bedside

And told me all things must die

I stared through him

At the teeth chattering on the walls

At the decaying bouquets

At the bodies piled up

In the corner of the room

I took his hand

And he smiled

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Thursday 16th July 2015 12:30 pm

scythe

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  • 2015 (1)

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