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Ominous crying trees
act as borders,
in a crowded
cemetery of ideas

Unfinished headstones
litter crooked rows
of abrupt notions-
“ a piece about the
way things seem to…”

Muses mourn
for buried potential,
scrutinizing maneuvers
that could've saved
the tenants of this place

With regret they socialize
through the night,
comparing form
while their capacity
pales with time

As ghosts conspire
to find freedom
from this limbo,
new winds of verse
blow the tears
off of branches

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