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Monday, April 07, 2008


Dried worms, all crusty from the summer’s rays,
lay halved and quartered, on the ground like fries.
Remains from spring and summer’s rainy days,
transfigured worms no longer catch birds’ eyes.

The months that passed since their untimely deaths
diminished their pink sliminess and shine.
Now yellow, flat, no longer taking breaths,
they’re part of asphalt, with their flesh combined.

One shouldn’t worry if one steps on heads.
In death, the elements destroyed their looks,
and steps of humans squished them in their beds.
They now are used to being crushed in nooks.

And after death our reputations change,
and who we were is left to Fate’s disdain.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!