Numbered days

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Numbered days

The day of the end is coming upon us
The signs of such all around
People rushing to see disaster
To be apart of the pain
Laughing at dispare
Not caring for the dead
Preachers making a mint,
The Mint going broke
Woe to the childern
What a world they will inherit.

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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

katblu’s Poems (3)

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Numbered days 0
My cat 0
The child inside 0