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The Grey Curtain Sneha Sundaram The dull, grey, Frayed edge of the curtain Creeps downward. With every passing wind And sometimes on its own, It tries to inch, A nanometer at a time, To the ground. Swaying softly, Crying coarse tears of nihilism, In every swing it takes. The curtain knows it must rest And that’s where the ground is, But it swings back and forth still; Knowing it cannot fight The light it blocked once. At its pith, No longer the handsome, Silver tinged adornment Of that once happy home. No, it’s now a torn, Ragged, ashen shadow Of its glorious past.

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