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A falling star on the edge
of the dark side
wants to know why
in an endless quest
leading to brown grass
when the world dies
will love live on
in an open sky
hands outstretched
ready to do it right this time
or when love dies
nothing moves forever
not even small creatures
the wind has turned its back
hair starts to fall dead on arrival
like falling snow on my pillow
in my vacuum
counting each strand
in my poem
