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MELTED
His grandparents shot in bed; Both at rest, bloody dead. Odious sight for a boy of four, too sick instead to play anymore.
He ran a very long mile to relay grim reaper’s smile, “They’re melting,” he implored, “like ice cream flows on floor.”
For this child also knew his life was a puddle too. Now his link to love is loss; Society assigned a foster boss.
--Don Holmes 1 April 2003
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