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"vassualt" poems
Theres the tree, Pruned back, 2009 looked like a dream, Brads poniac yellow shirt, We sped down vassualt, Over the hills soul, Where the russian boys Name was carved on the old mans ugly tree. The bleeding branches, Force us to slow down. In the movies nobody dies. The actors are imortal, The actors get to leave a crash scene. The filming stops. We get to see the russian boy go to college. He buys the old house over the hill. Becomes an engineer and prunes the tree That killed him on vassualt street. We always think of the tree And the apples which line the ground like graves. Somewhere it happens Every year. Fast cars and slanted hills.
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Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
Over The Hill