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Andras Horvath Poem
The smell of dead flowers,
Life dances at "zero hour"-s,
No wonder man is doomed,
when you sit there, deplumed.
Move away, you peasant mongrel,
I'm not to be held,
accountable or to any sense.
Lime-a-way,my sins, oh darling,
even after I washed hands,
they still feel so damning.
12.29.2017
Copyright © Andras Horvath | Year Posted 2017
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