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Friday, May 4, 2012

Sour Stomach

A burning attic and and elevator stuck
Gaskets pressurize and gasp in the muck.
Nothing better for the empire amassed.
Everyone died because no one would ask.
A breathe baked in bread found the runner drowned.
The tilted basket broken beneath the weight of frowns.
Mire molded to a stomach's first form.
Burned out the exit and left it torn.
Craft your packages with caring love
Or fall a first flight and breathe the dove.

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