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FACILITY

A small bag hangs in place
moldy and molded by time
full of nothing but memories
and possible atoms of apples
or peanuts or nails
Once helpful servant
now motionless home
to spiders and dust
Dead to this world’s thinkers
with no thought of burial
reaching to eternity
with the hope 
of being re-filled by loving hands
Because touch is king
Touch is king

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