Cacophony of crows overhead. Buzzards circling the corpse of a dead society. One filled with hate for things others don't have, through no fault of their own.
Cascading rapids of loss sliding through cracks of lasting pain. Filling in for the gradual pain they feel for one another.
The lost group of Americans, the poor, the hungry, the feeble masses. Forgotten in the realms of life. Their only want, to be recognized for who they are. The lost of America, the forgotten of time and remnants of a dead society.
B³
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