Mixed into two feet of decay,
smells of death, and rot, and must.
It tears at cells of life
melting them into the muck.
This purgatorial zone eats life.
Draws it in, turns it, rolls it into heat.
Turning life, churning life, burning life
out of this dead thing.
Categories: Poems
South of the Strait 
thats good
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that poem was horrible
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that was awsome
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it was awsome
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that was awsome
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