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aside the sand...
on the shore...
behind the rock...
a flower, dry and cracked as the land.
we look to the past...
through a cloudy, scratched lens...
the flower: its forgotten brilliance,
though it used to be blinding is dimly cast.
a passive voice is spoken...
where has it gone?
the power it used to have?
but the silence does not seem broken.
its green fades to brown,
acidic winds blow,
sand pelts its leaves,
salt wears away its roots,
its petals shrivel back,
and its leaves finally fall to the ground.
the sand is blowing.
and on the shore,
behind the rock...
nothing.
-david rbV May '01
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