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by Charles Carreon
'Twould seem overly
reductive,
Not terribly instructive
To take the colors from the sky
When anyway they all will fly,
To kill us every single day
When we must all die anyway.
'Twould be rather
fuddy-duddyish
And lack imagination
To smother children's happy thoughts
With a dark zen-colored cushion,
To break their toys for their own good
And tell them there's no supper
For fear they might enjoy themselves
And love what should be hated.
'Twould seem the
criticism
that the world's but a machine
Has itself been found defective
And even a bit obscene
For those who know
and do not know
Are seldom told apart
Except the truth is always known
In fools and madmen's hearts.
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