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Umbrellas and crows fill the grey.
Pock marked procession thru the sleet as the howl of a lonely bell misbehaves
In the drunken silence.
Polished black shoes singing on gravel.
Albino leaves sweep thru the air falling in half time so as not to interrupt the silent shuffle.
Black coats and bandages fall out of an eviscerated sky.
Processions of emptiness run for the turning of the tide.
To sail in their coffin ships where all good things must die.
Underneath a bitter sun hanging in a wounded sky.

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