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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 © deb radke | Year Posted 2012


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  1. Date: 6/10/2014 9:37:00 AM

    This is such a powerful write! Bravo!