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Noah Cornell Jul 2011
A sour breath hangs over this city
Like the deep exhale after battle,
Gunpowder rots on my clothes,
Lamps sag overhead,
Casting halos in puddles on the sidewalk,
Leaves float by,
Collecting dust,
And the air is spiced with carelessness,
As I walk down the rain-soaked streets of my childhood.

— The End —