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A poem
OOC:
Eliste is my close friend, and since she decided to show her poetry I will too, but she is better.

*****

I do not need to remind us,
of the moral implicit to the situation.

Poor thing.
His brothers had died so quickly.
Painlessly.
No moment of clarity,
no moment of depth,
a noise,
deafening to them
a whisper to us,
then nothing.
A big bang
that takes life
rather make it.


What a mess.
A graveyard of spun water,
where the bodies of fallen soldiers,
lie broken on the surface.
The clear dew only to give a mocking contrast,
to their delicate systems that lay outside.

But he was not dead.
Wings fluttering,
beating against the sea.
It was not the wind,
of going to sixty five down a quiet road,
it was panic.
He was alive for two and a quarter miles
before his wings fell silent,
his one functional leg stopped kicking,
and if he had eyelids,
I imagine they would have closed.


When I stopped for gas,
and with the rubber hand of God purifed the battleground,
I stopped at him,
took a moment,
by that the blink of an eye,
and wiped him from my view.

_________________
Nicolas D. Wolfwood
Blood-son to Lady Clue
First Kindred of the FoLK

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