6 o`clock
A chilly dawn
While this wretched town still yawns
A paper bag the wind has blown
no home to call it’s own.
From where it came
It cannot say,
ignorant to where it’s bones shall lay.
It’s stance now only a form
The insides still not grown
And yet so quick to name it’s own.
Thus it shall remain
A paper bag,
whom chilly winds shall always drag.
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