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Flowers at the Side of the Road

Withered flowers beside the road,
muddied bouquets of memories,
tattered stuffed animals,
cards of scribbled regret,
stand like slaughtered soldiers,
weather beaten sentinels,
awaiting the slow slog of justice,
a murky tide to come rolling in,
if it ever does, bringing justice for all.
Meanwhile cries for retribution echo,
hoping somehow vengeance satisfies,
though it never does,
only pouring more cut flowers
onto other piles of grief,
multiplying screams of rage
as victims shout their loss
against the deafened ears of time.
So we wait, and wait some more,
until the Great Day comes.

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