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Poetry is like flowers
Beautiful, yes
Without question
But
Only after the longest seasons of waiting
Writing lines of artistry
From the ink of poisoned history
Not to glorify
Instead
To shed light upon the broken
On the darkest pieces
I’ve poetically embraced
To reveal what’s been kept
For only me and the moon to know
In the luminosity of the sun
Rather than the black of night
Poetry is magic
The way it casts away fear
And spells beauty from letters of pain
Though
In the midst of poetic fantasy
Reality still lingers
Whispering from the stars
It speaks of loss
And teared flesh
And so
Do not get lost in the garden
For every rose has thorns
For all skin cut at the hands of gold
Still bleeds red
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