A Web Page for Charles A. Gramlich
Poetry Slam
Amid the dregs of a man's soul 
one finds many things, 
dust and empty tin whistles, 
the wheels off a hundred matchbox cars, 
a mother's face and the whisper of silk, 
that passed away. 
It is a world of tombs, of coffins, 
filled with bones and stones and sins. 
And it's always quiet there, 
in the memory of ruins.
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Updated:
11/15/06
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