Frailer than a Crack
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I fall into the puddle of my angst;
you tire of the smell of my decay.
Our afternoons will disappear with time
while you'll go on to seize another's day.
Our time was spent on dying leaves that blushed
and fell from branches frailer than a crack.
My damp decline can hardly suit your taste,
soon you shall leave and never tumble back.
Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com