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Autumn Even autumn was dying. Perhaps to end the falls of my will. While leaves of good times, Now dry, cold, and crumbling, Blew in the wind, never still. With them gusts of hope went flying. Perhaps to show in the pain and the chill. Barren trees, once full, Now empty, cold, and swaying, Stood as my soul, never still. |
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I submitted this poem on Poetry.com as well. I am unaware of their Copyright status, but my poem still appears on their website.
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