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Poor Jack Grim
Where might you run tonight, Jack Grim?
Waiting for the six
beneath the din.

You told us that you'd ride beside your kin
wild faced, brainless, white
outside it's skin

And did we find the light, so dim?
Softly, sand underfoot
fills to your brim

This beaten death of yours
delights your icy sin.
Why all this, always?
Sucking out the life.
What was within?

Until tonight, where might we run, young things?
And you who chose to leave,
your souls outside the gate
and running fastest, yet running, still.
Late, poor Jack

Fate! What must we do?

Just waiting for the six
with nothing, to begin
to find, nor fix
and perhaps you were right
to make us sick
and rob us blind
and keep us thin

Through marble stares
and vogue, stilted cares
you still had time to fix your hair
as your horses bolt
before, you laying there

Well, what now? Poor Jack Grim.
Copyright © 2006 Ben Kross

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