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Poems
Blue Ball
NH ( / London)

Blue Ball

Dying,
Is like the rolling of the blue ball,
The ball under which the seeds of sand,
Ripped from their beaches of calm,
Glide lazily over faux grass,
The rough beaten edge of the fibre glass,
And carbon composite lance,
Strikes hard and sends the seeds of sand,
And faux grass,
Through the air,
Whilst the blue ball rockets onwards,
Along the ageless ground,
Towards heaven or hell.

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