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An End in Itself


It's a circular path into nowhere.

Spiraling, even.


It's not a place of beauty,

I can tell you that,

and it's not a place of hope.

You just can't go there.


At some point in every day,

your breath catches in your throat.


I cry every day. The life with polka dots,

it lives in water.



Source: NPR story about Newtown shootings.

H o w i e
G o o d

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