Poetry

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The world is just a potatoe patch
where spades shall dig the dirt
and from it's roots will show forth
if it has value or no worth.

Hay there do you hear that
the sound of music singing live.
I heard it yesterday and beyond
is it angels in the sky.

Oh how much I love thee Lord,
you alone know I do.
You alone Lord, you alone
so I don't have to prove.

2004-2009-published
© Sandra M. Veinot,
All rights reserved

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