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quiet song, early afternoon

the body found seven days later
in the back seat of a car

the killer caught
two thousand miles away
and the morning arriving without hope

damp sunlight and grey clouds

the shadows of powerlines
down silent streets

and it's here that
i run out of things to give you

it's here that i
run out of promises and
out of lies
and i never knew the victim

never worried about
these small tragedies until i
had children of my own and by then
cobain was a ghost and
my own father a handful of ashes

my own future seen with
a newfound brutal 
clarity

everything i held
suddenly stained

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