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standing at the top of a hill with rubbish around,
the stench and wind lifts up from the ground,
throwing his treasured junk from the tip face,
at one time he valued them with embrace,
picking up a bag so heavily filled with memories of care,
looking at it roll to a stop with an emotional stare,
getting a bag again then seeing part of it ripped,
he ties it again tight and lifts it firmly gripped,
throwing down to the depths of the massing pile,
finally the last bag gives him a smile,
along comes a tractor that drives in shredding them all,
while the man waits he hears the tractor driver give out a call,
looking down at the remains of this family he killed,
the sick twisted person covered in the blood he spilled.