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Poetry
Short Stories
Expository Essays





There's nothing so pure
As the tears of a child

There all playing perfectly
The parts they think they play
This one a mom
That one a clerk
What few of them see
Is the river
Where once it is a stream
Soon it's the sea
Then it's the rain
Again it is the stream
Potentially everything
Potentially none
Where they see them all
I see but one.


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