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About This Poem
A View From the Gray Blurred Window
The house on third street
with its pastel walls, white bannisters
and perennial cracked plaster
spidering webs across ceilings invulnerable to repair
would be a lovely place to hang photographs of living
- now -
framed and absurdly gaudy
in bright overexposed colors.
They would chase fears
from the gray room
- the writing room -
where he sat behind
tear-streaked panes
and wrote suicide notes.
On good days,
when sunshine smiled
and fall painted the
maple leaves in gay attire
he stared at them through the glass
and watched them dancing,
just before they jumped
to certain death.
thewordsofhispoemsfromthattimeallruntogetherlikecrayolasmeltinginthehotsun
he stares at the mostly blank pages with word scars
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and wonders who
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