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Feb 2013
I live on the moon.
Rocketed here last noon.
A Running Away
because of my mind and child's play.

I spend all day
building people
Out of moon-dust clay.
An army, A steeple
All without pay.

This is my punishment:
Slash at the sun,
Smell not a single scent,
And see no one
made of anything but clay.
Ann Beaver
Written by
Ann Beaver
668
     T, Dreiliece and Timothy
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