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Predictions (a short poem this morning)

Predictions


The storm, as a last ditch effort

to move a critic, has a rough patch

now dosed and making up

coming clean.

A gulping train belches flags.

Someone says

the chill of the white farm house

will need green to show

all things break down.

Life or death comes on

like street lights of an all too

familiar ride.  If I was taken

short or long, the gases will

not collide, or make tomorrow

fill the head with thunder.

If the lights go out, I've

already written the book

on the dark.








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