The March

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He was a uniform, a living memory, the shape of his step whispered doubt, surviving on pain, a ceremonious departure from mothers arms, cast in a wreath of command, 200 hundred brave scattered like leaves, what a wonderful lie, to rail at death, to writhe in a collared noose, silent words shout orders, to regain some sense of order, as death rattles an ataxic ghost from its shell. A sliver of green tears up through the earth, where footsteps  faded into a memory.

-Josh Fleming

Some words inspired by Kurt Vonnegut, Cats Cradle

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