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My uncle kept writing a poem,
Entitled "Why," dedicated
To the Almighty. In it, he wrote
Of statues that could move,
Hidden and dark; damp,
With a bit of wishes
Undisturbed. (This flux,
While turbulent,
Is meaningless.) I told him
Not to worry; this happens
To more people
Than you could imagine.
This is bigger than us.
Somehow, I don't believe
He can equate the concept
Of the ocean being the sea.
This could possibly explain
How his statues always held
Stained blue-red roses,
Or how, by the end,
He would always ask why
Every city must be Jerusalem.
©2005-2009 ~tk-nvme
:icontk-nvme:

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:icondivinecover:
I've read over this several times and I don't know why but just the tone and simple word choice are brilliant. My best guess is the perfect arrangement and structure of emphasis in each line but I can't quite place a finger on it. Stunning

--
Every bigot was once a child free of prejudice. –Sister Mary de Lourdes
:iconcataplasia:
that's wicked fantastic.

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September 12, 2005
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