13/a

That frozen rain is blasting down on the boarded up rooms, the eerie cold whistles in on the last ghosts, some voices can still be heard, the suicides and drunken brawls the cars with their drugs and guns, sovereign hands that shake and throw. But is that them outside waiting for the dogs, the bus back into town, or real men and women, curry chip kids and songs gone on into a legend no more.
Torn down eventually they will be blown down and nowhere now for them to go, dead lonely, dead and buried, only now echoes on.

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