Spun

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An original poem:


 


Spun around in my way


In a world pude and grey.


Woven deeply like a sore


Never healing.


A fork in the clearing 


A shaded dusk like none others seen,


Finely shaded and molded green.


Forest on fire like a funeral parlor,


Death unbecoming like a doornail splitting.


A spitting image of your childhood


comes to graces.


A million towns, A million faces


A facade you're unaware of 


Later becomes so repetitive,


And you see this repetition 


Day in and day out


Find no meaning, 


A memory you're asked to retrace.


One of which you have no recollection


Yet you've been to certain places before


Certain people you've met,


and can't reason why.


The time shrivels and passes you by.


You're still unaware that of that facade,


it never crosses your egotistical mind


That before you've lived this life


You've also lived mine.


 

Created: Feb 07, 2011

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Babbish Document Media