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The last shot in the air
was not the report from a .22
  
Nor it was not a head on collision
between two automobiles
in relative speed.

Ask the tiny window cleaner,
dangling mid-air, calculative;
on the twenty fifth of the high-rise

It was just the death of a dream

Just one-claimed by none yet
 
It fluttered and burst,
before bleeding dry

But what caused the uproar
was the broken edges;
that showed small fingers-
curled and cold,
from the bluish tinge
that spread fast

It was suffocated to death-
another statistical figure,
A number on the death toll;
of unclaimed dreams

Good night-Sleep well-Soon.
Written by Whitewand6
Published | Edited 7th Jan 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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