Scoble would be proud
When will this day end?

Take this, National Poetry Month!

Cold particles alight upon my shoulder.
Where is she?
A little boy drops his carrot, and somewhere a woman screams.
The scream. The Scream.
Echoing as if on fire,
Crackling to be heard.

Seven entered, three returned.
Clutching each other for support
they knew their destiny.
Where is she?
Who is she?
All answers lead to confusion.
Cold, hard confusion is the only reality.

Where is she?

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