Much about
The cold oak
Fingers the
Grip roots
That play around
The neck. But I have
These warm words
That can beat
The sound, the cool
Death and they're
Yours if you want
Them.
One of the most rewarding moments of my life came when I took the photo of this piece. A guy in headphones walked by, stopped, read the poem, and kept on walking. But he stopped.
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