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Feb 17
A flutter, then two, then airbound
It’s beastly, the flock, and takes form
White feathers, chaos, they rain down
Pretty shapes, patterns, so performed.
Its white wall taunted her, the poor green dove
Her poor tears stain one more, she doesn’t see
And every bird she passed, she dyed with love
Her very tears blinding, only pity
She drowns herself, so never gets to see
The massive green flock that’s now following
Written by
Isaiah Rude
108
 
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