Book of Poems

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poem 9

The rainbow from

past flashes with

slow feathers...

For not glory

is true we

are real in

you then fake

will out the

silent goodbye

The happy memories we look at slowly and gently then the bad only to remember how it was all an illusion to the hatred you felt. Because of this fact, you no longer care when the person is gone from this world forever never to be seen again.
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