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Le Gold For You? |
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Total Votes : 6 |
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Posted: Thu Jan 10, 2008 5:31 am
Bugs on Trees - Megan MacNeel
The armored hide of little tanks Slowly creeps along The petrified ridges Of oxygen factories.
Withstanding the winds of fortune, Doggedly ignoring The flapping death of war. They plunge in their spikes
And keep climbing. Inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter The ground bleeds beneath The constantly moving legs
Of millions. Everything is constant. Motion never ceases. With lives as brief as a candle flicker
The soldiers must march on. Politics moved them onto the board, But here in the pawn’s world There are no Queens.
God has no place here. Ideals do not exist. There is only the march of the tanks And the slow creep up the face of instinct.
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Posted: Sat Apr 26, 2008 9:49 pm
I rather like that. 3nodding
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