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May 2017
no two firing squads are the same

dripping rain flowing down your collar

on a  sour shelterless street

will finish you off

on a callous cold night

in a warm translucent city

the stagnant light from a rancid computer

under the glare of the office police

for eight endless hours

sitting in a spineless chair

till your brain melts like crippled ice cream

your pre frontal cortex dripping

through wasted eye sockets

will finish you off

the sandbags piled up

behind your back

a wasted muttered prayer

offered up for your soul

no two firing squads are the same

only the dying is constant
Harriet Cleve
Written by
Harriet Cleve
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