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Soap Box Poets

Death of Life
© by Karen Greatbatch

standing on the cliff top
listening to crashing, washing waves,
white horses leap and sparkle,
sprays of glistening diamonds,
breeze blows cool and soft
to the touch.

Where shall I be when the
clouds are old and greying?
In the aged wind,
when the sun is burned out
and resources are gone.

And on the damp, cold day
of my death,
I pray, child, that you will see
what I see only in my dreams.
Memories - held forever
never to be lost,
yet never to be seen again.

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