Mark Simmons


Gregory’s dead and gone away,
I begged him, “Please, oh won’t you stay?
You’ve been here so long, yet I knew you not,
We could have been friends, but we only fought.”

His spirit was fading, bland and old;
A face creviced by wrinkles, his shy eyes cold.
Turning slowly, he shot me a frown,
A vague voice began to float slowly around.

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