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Poetry

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Poetry: Anything is possible

Sigh-Clone

A Renegade chef chops

Through the desert,

Bringing bread for the Dead

As they rise and bow to the Yeast.

Voices make me nervous

And wonder what time it is.

The phone rings

And I answer the Door.

Nobody is ever there.

I breathe the freshly cut lawn

That lingers in the Summertime

Flavored scent of my childhood.

You roll over and say

Go back to sleep.

That is the extent of my Dreams.

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