The platitudes have done their job,
Initiated then full blown.
The cascade of surplus white picket
Staked it's shrieking claim,
Aligned themselves upon my chest
And made an honest hole,
Then pierced 'til all myself flowed out.
I perished with a growl.
And will they say I was "so kind,"
Or that I "did my best" ????
My very death absorbed by trite,
Old platitudes, I guess.
-jenn long
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