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He was making old people.

Angry old people walking around in spite.

The train sits on the bridge, the bridge wonders.

It’s like a simple gust of wind.

It will rest on dead trains.

A stone retaining wall supporting a builder of empires.

The ghosts turn in their graves.

The air ever so slightly biting your cheeks.

A beautiful thing passes; it will never look the same.

A mirror shatters.
For this poem, I took a section of my free-writing and broke it up in to single sentences. I then ONLY deleted words and phrases I did not want to come up with this poem. My creative writing teacher had me do this. And it was awesome.
"And if he's gone away," said she,
"Good riddance, if you're asking me.
I'm not a one to lie awake
And weep for anybody's sake.
There's better lads than him about!
I'll wear my buckled slippers out
A-dancing till the break of day.
I'm better off with him away!
And if he never come," said she,
"Now what on earth is that to me?
I wouldn't have him back!"
  I hope
Her mother washed her mouth with soap.

— The End —