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It’s always 8 AM
always running late
the tea is always cold
always 2nd place
we are a field of poppies
proud but bent.

A study in the way
we hang our heads in shame
and the sorrows we clutch
tight against our chest
picking up the tempo
in this dance of death.

Waiting once again
night rolls into the next
for real or for pretend
alive or dead
standing like a statue
chipped and cracked.

We lost a few along the way
but what did you expect?
We lost something along the way,
it’s best we just forget.

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