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May 2017
A butterfly stays
in a king’s bush, laden
with blush roses—
an orphan of the garden.
Home of the yesteryear,
now thorn whips cracked
By old wardens.
Flee, you blossom flapping.
Flee, for your proboscis
seeks for sanctuary,
Not a casket.
My name is Geoff
Written by
My name is Geoff  18/M/PH
(18/M/PH)   
312
   ryn and Ryan Holden
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