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running down the path
they spill
unloved and loosed
from seams unseen

she quickly scoops them
shoving them
into invisible pockets
no time to rhyme or alliterate
life is calling
with its teasing hurried promise

they will wait
they have no choice
they just “are”
for she thought them
and they must
be written
if perhaps tearfully
at a later date

I’ve linked this up to OLN at dVerse.  Come play with us.

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