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Judy Ponceby
Poems
Oct 2010
Dead
Dead.
Ingloriously, unceremoniously dead.
Nothing special.
Just dead.
That one of billions.
Poor bug.
Smashed all over the wall.
Guts flattened.
Bits broken.
No one to care.
Other than the cleaning lady.
When she's done.
No evidence the reaper has been.
Written by
Judy Ponceby
Ohio, USA
(Ohio, USA)
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Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul
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