Unknown
There's a long open road ahead,
With people passing by at the end.
The branches of roadside trees bend in the wind,
Pothole puddles reflect mortality.
There's a ball, left by some child,
A child who no longer exists.
To travel that open road, blown along by the wind,
Reflected in the rippling waters,
To join those passing people;
Or to grab that ball and play...
By J. Barrett
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