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* * *
Brown carpet, brown chairs,
stale minds, stale air.
Magazines wrinkle on a wrack;
Two searching souls, clothed in black.
Token green plants, full of dust-
stench of dolor, rotting to rust.
Complimentary tissue for a cry
as you sit and wait, wondering why.
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On April 21st, 2014 02:43 pm (UTC), starrynytes4me commented:
Wow. This really captures it all. The meter and rhyme is so comforting it's disturbing and fits the topic perfectly. It's simple & complex in that way.
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