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The Spills

A slight wobble around your table,
Spills onto every corner of the earth,
To give birth.
A strange shadow,
Or a curse,
Skyrocket devastation,
Infinite isolation,
Still tied to the bed, attacked a blow,
Numbers and figures too many to know.
All slaps and slurs for the spillage,
The eyes pour watching a dismal image,
Of the world, God built for you and me,
Surrounded by mountains, oceans and trees.
You got to wipe this off from spreading.
It only left me thinking,
How’s life going to be for our children?
Whether more such shadows hiding behind our door?
Whether things will just subside or soar?

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