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The Death of Poets
Is it any wonder how writers,
even so young -
their faces tight and bright with sun,
their eyes agleam -
how yet they still succumb
to emptiness?
Their faucets dripping dry;
an empty sky,
no air; nowhere to run,
no thoughts to dream?
Then, let the bullets fly.
Let blades invade the vital stream.
Let souls depart.
And in ascension seem
to find their heart
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