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A grieving muddle was huddled in town square.

The parson, the mayor and coroner were there.

A bloody heap lay inert in the street.

She knew before she was there, the precious heap was hers.

Her youngest’s anxieties always peaked on Sundays.

As the last hymn faded away,

he climbed the steeple to answer

the haunting question:

“If Angels fly, why can’t I?”

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1 Comment

So sad... wish more people (especially the young) could find their alternate way to fly.😥

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