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Aug 2014
Our hopes burn like the butts of the cigars we smoke.
You smell sweeter than any whiskey.
The house vanishes brick by brick
But these planks are here to stay
A locomotive howls up at the moon across the field
A harvest moon casting an orange glow
Intercepts our prismatic tears
All is dull and dark
Save our shining faces
Sundowner
Written by
Sundowner  Kalamazoo
(Kalamazoo)   
886
 
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