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The Harvest Corn

Distant; in a growing sense.
Fickle, removed from a loves first hopes,
Labor is our quest now, toiling to see who quits first.
Simple as it was, too never be again,
Why fight it or play the game, the door still swings.
Walk away in a staggered colapse, talk in stammering tries.
It’s only temporary, like the dust on the harvest corn.

Author notes

uhm .... yeah

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