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wrinkled moments come
with the morning drowsiness
your coffee eyes fresh
dear father i’m scared
you will turn grey by the time
i see you again
if i sing a dirge
during feticide, is it
mercy to ******
campfire player
who loses identity
without audience
reflected on trees
my shadow is a giant
waving on the bark
wild flowers blooming
like there is no quarantine
while we’re in mind jail
it’s only the flower fallen off
that makes sense
not the tasks of work
that lead nowhere

it’s only the eyes resting
on each other calmly
that makes sense
not the rush of a boring day
that act like important

it’s only the expression
by creating myself with art
that makes sense
not the forced knowledge
i can’t use
that’s told it is needed

it’s only the memory
of mom
appearing as real as her love was
that makes sense
not the fake sorries and words
that are said
when they don’t know better
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