Sally Plumb Plumb
Red brick alley,
where blood and anguish
drips from blades
and is never seen
in the permanant shade.
Where consience is
a nuetral spot
and badland innocence
is soon forgot
among its nueral wanderings.
Freedom through minds wrought
leads back to where
life seethed before.
Another alley innocent
hits the floor
never to talk again.
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Comments about this poem (The Juveniles by Sally Plumb Plumb )
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