w.wolfe;

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In the field; rustling yellow with flowers, The grain growing and flowing. I sit here, thinking of peaceful thoughts. The sky rumbles black with ash; Everything is dying. The trees squeak red as if in pain, And I am sitting alone, Sitting and speaking white thoughts, Calm with the situation at hand. Dying black screeches of the apocalypse, The green static of a flower in bloom. Letting go of all before me, With the fading feel of blue. The blue calling of acceptance, The blue sound of forgiving, The blue of ending.

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