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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Aug 23
The churchyard is silent
The insides are rotting,
just remember,
from the insides we're nothing
it's what we do
that make us who
and what we are.
Finally
when they bury me
it will not be me
in there
I'll still be
in what you read
in the air that you breathe,
even I can't escape that.
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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