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The White Storm

The white storm.
Whirling, twirling, killing leaving none.
None to live and fight for tomorrow.
Some die when born.
Others left to dwell on some false hope of light.
Here comes our day,
Our day of reckoning.
For she'll come to hold my hand,
All the way to the deepest down.

27 May 07

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did you mean DAWN as the last word?
Anyway it matters not
this poem, is stupidly inane.
A bigger cliche I could not imagine.
 — unknown

no i ment deepest down thx for the feedback it isnt one of my best so i can understand thx
 — DLBanksAWM12