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Swan Song

His skin was like loose Saran wrap that no amount of topical cream could smooth away its wrinkles. His skeletal bones creaked, muffled by an old squeaking rocking chair he gently, rhythmically rocked to singsong poetry he wrote nearly fifty odd years ago. Each iambus spoken aloud curiously matched his rocking: the short syllables went backward the longer ones ever forward. Suddenly his recital stopped and the chair went still and silent.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013




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Date: 3/16/2013 9:02:00 PM
Oh, This is so on point...For those of us whose recital is coming to an end.. ROCK ON!..BG
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