poetry critical

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In hushed rooms he is placed.
The toys' voices have been lost;
they are closer than ever.
They won't ask him about feelings,
blindly leave the numb.
They talk about whether
the weather
will take him outside.
He thinks:                                            for himself
                     I know she is gone
                     I don't know about death
                     but I know of it.
And when the fifth candle smokes,
he's sincere,
"This is not Elmo's World."

20 Mar 07

(define the words in this poem)

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This reminds me of a book I once read. Brilliant.
 — unknown

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