Is It Poetry
The aura of air,
around them, it is.
Some of their brains,
may even be.
what of those parents.
What kind of seed,
Are they words,
of another era long past.
Sometimes I wish I had.
Hiding in the open,
is in vain.
The pencil in my side,
mum pulled out.
Their were four.
And some fourty eight,
The lead is still usable.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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- Heather Burns
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)