Crash Poem by Wyatt Epple

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Crash

Autoplay

The mental blackness of the deafening blast
The plentiful rush of arctic glass
Stamping out the senses.
Now finally weathered by the coolness
Holding nothing but thy hopes
Slowly, swiftly swept on heav'nward.

(3/10/11)

Wyatt Epple

Monday, July 22, 2013

poem poems Senses

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