The AP: A Poem by Freyja Goldstein

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the inky words are long gone

having flowed from pens like blood

sucked by leeches

splattered across the page

droplets

A through D

like oily rain

the shells they left behind lie lifeless

limbs draped across tables

heads laid to rest

eyes vacant

coherent thought utterly evaporated

like mist from the rivers surface

bodies still

breathing

waiting

the tap of a pencil

a momentous crash

the roar of the vents

the creak of a plastic folding chair

a tick of the clock

waiting

waiting

 

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