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The other morning walking down near the old town
I heard more birds speak nearby an open lot
that has been left alone for quite a long time, 
long enough to remember it as it was 
when I was only a partial boy.

There sat, a boarded up old house, with boarded
up windows, and it 
had been raised from its foundation as 
if it would someday be moved, but never

The old wooden picket fence had been removed,
as were the other houses that sat not too far from it 
which had all been removed, 
open empty space

There were trees everywhere, and purple spikey
thorn leaves of bull thistle awaiting to flower,
almost like a pencil drawing in the 
movement of time before it surely does 
without any sound.

It was almost as if time had become
muted, and only a picture remained.

Or, any hearing of almost the extreme opposite, 
And me trying somehow to understand what I
never could, may not ever,

because I am only a robot,
they say.



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