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its hard to imagine thyself
as a piece of rubble. a mere stagnated
glass shard drowned empty of its contents
relinquished and enjoyed at one time,
thrown by the wayside to rot into a slushpile
of garbage. its hard to imagine thyself
used and abused, desired and consummated,
not recycled or even polished to its true and original
beautification. its hard to imagine thyself
stacked upon flying dust and wet newspapers,
feces defecated, a rising stench upon
piles of soggy utilized plastic and twisted metal.
not new, not fresh-just simply tossed and abandoned
like a infant waiting a new home in a basket upon the
steps of a foster home. its hard to imagine a place
where even souls got dirty. where thumbprints are
sticky and fingernails are traced with soiled dirt and
caked soot from years of neglect. its hard to imagine
thyself used and abused
hurt and dismissed
tossed in the trash
and dismayed with pure negligence.
sanitation comes and picks up at noon-
but where he finds his location is up to you.

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