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a shade of pink

as if the razor couldn’t cut
or the rose had no smell,
but your nose was dripping
and a tissue was not in reach
of the umbrella that
repelled the rain onto your socks
you look up and there she was
hanging from the carousel
the horse, it was - neighing
as she dug her nails into it’s neck
squealing, each drop colder than
the one before six
roasting melons on the fire
pulling their legs and wings off,
salt would be preferred
the squirrel flashing the warning
the toss of the mouse
the dripping of the noise
a taste all it’s own
if you went to Colorado
would it follow, like the duck
or the sheep on the ledge if not balanced
the marbles all roll to one side
to be repeated again
as if to be sliding on the dew
in the morning the day of
the funeral - her dress was red

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