piles
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If only life was as easy to handle as a pile of laundry.
It builds up and up, but a quick load or two will shrink it back down.
And then all that is left is the warm smell of lavender soap and an empty basket.
You can hear the trees cry
As the machine shreds their friends.
All the leaves and trunks downward die
They cannot speak; they are shy.
They do indeed meet their violent end.
