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2003-07-10 - 3:14 p.m.

The Final Green

A dying triceratops stares at the storm
with eyes like cooling magma pools.
Between thunderclaps, he stamps down and roars
at a green memory. All the stars have cooled
and the moon is lost to the meteoric veil.
Though now the storm nears, and lightning flashes,
a blue-white ozone crack, a scratching nail
of false daylight, lighting withered branches.

As lightning tears the sky, the landscape burns
on the dinosaurís eyes, and he roars over
the hiss of acid rain on blackened ferns.
From some primordial joy he roars for
Imprinted spots of dancing, shrinking green
Drifting across a midnight sheet of rain.



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