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May 2016
a mother,
a father,
dearest friends,
myself,
and every passing
minute,
crowded the burial sight
of my shattered
hearts’ numbered years
as
time moved a steady hand
to my shuddering shoulders,
repeating in a rhythmic tone,
β€œDon't fear, for I can fix this.”
I hope the vision of this poem is as clear here as it was in my wicked mind.
Lakin
Written by
Lakin  18/where flowers grow
(18/where flowers grow)   
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