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Gingiva
March 16, 2008
Snow capped hills, with yellow grass
New plants blooming in the horizon of the yellow sun
Floating on the apex of the mount willows with remnants of blueberries
Left over with the strawberries from the early dawn
The pink sky has transformed to a sanguine red
As the rotting clouds clamp over the mountains
Not a living soul can survive through the suffocating air
The pungent odor of freshly cut onions lingers into my nose
You have nasty teeth
And your breath smells.
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