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Clowns in a Circus Tent.
We were ants in an anthill,
Standing ankle deep in fine grains
Of solemn conflagration.
Holding strong onto beliefs and beams
Of hollowed wooden peaks.
They were humans in a shroud
Of tobacco smoke, cloaked
In tresses of pessimism and condescension.
Watching cigarettes beacon like lighthouses,
Perched perfectly between their pursed lips.
Disdainfully, unknowingly blaming our fascination with
Passion, our need for affirmation.
Their feet cleared air
And crushed our hopes
Of leaving picnics and sundresses.
Those were days clad in sadness,
Days grinning under rain and sleeping cats.
Time was but the rhythm of drifting sand.
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