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May 1
While on my way to Golden Town
To save the weary dead,
I saw a man in tattered clothes
Rubbing his wounded head.
I offered him assistance,
I helped him to his feet.
Despite my kindly gesture
He was hesitant to speak.

“Good sir,” I asked, “are you alright?”
The stranger did not respond.
Though he was looking right at me,
I swear his eyes looked beyond.
“I’m headed down to Golden Town,
To save the weary dead.”
I expected a joyful reaction,
But was greeted with apathy instead.

He scoffed, and laughed, at my endeavor,
Placing his hand on his hip.
“You’re wasting your time,” he finally said,
“I’m saving you a trip.
That Golden Town is rotten to its core,
Filled with wretched disease.
I, like you, went to rescue the lot,
Only to get cut at my knees.”

He began to walk to where I came,
Expressionless with his stride.
Before he left, his last words to me were
“You won’t come out there alive.”

I gazed upon the Golden Town,
Conflicted by the light.
How could a town be so crooked and dark
When the walls shine so bright?
Greg Jones
Written by
Greg Jones  M
(M)   
77
 
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