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Epitaph

Wailing howl of this world's fate
An epitaph that punctuates
The time is short, the hour late
Fig tree's bud is blooming

Stand fast in eye of storms
Peace prevails, unalarmed
Still the madness goes unchecked
Our own destruction looming

The world in this tumult raves
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Friday, April 25, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: apocalypse
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