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Ann Beaver
Poems
Aug 2014
Weapons
Time is an angel,
Decay, slow rotting
Love and vengeance plotting.
Girls drown in crowns,
whiskey, and tessellated tides
Sharp edge, triangle swords
Surrounding all sides.
Boys point arrows
Sharp, yet crooked
And fly from flower to flower
As a sparrow
All of everything ticks by
Into itself
Of itself
By itself
Written by
Ann Beaver
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life's jump
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