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It Marches On

And even words which once did flow So freely from this pen, Desert me now and fail to show The person I was then. This jubilee you came to see, The happy circus folk, Washed off their paint, packed up the tents; God plays a twisted joke. And now I lay alone inside This wretched room not mine. No more abide, sweet suicide; Complete your tender crime. It marches on without regard; It stops for not a man. If I but could this life discard I would, and start again. [to my friend James, who defeats the demons with grace and honor]

Copyright © | Year Posted 2012

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Date: 6/10/2014 9:37:00 AM
This is such a powerful write! Bravo!
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