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Oct 2018
I can fly higher than
A sycamore tree
I can see further
Than
An eagle
high, On wing
I can smell the musty Garm
Β that treads on Heavy paws
I can hear the
Tip tap
of
It's claws
I feel the shadow
Drift across my Grave
I see the blind begger
Shake his cup
His eyes sunken
Shriveled up
I can taste the

Sweet mixture
Of
Young virgins full of lust
Picking fruit
For the harvest
I feel hope slip
I feel a tear fall
Upon my lips
Salty
Yet pure
Enough to stop
Me feeling
Ashamed
For my senses
Are heighten
And I can receive
The message On high As high as
The sycamore tree.
Written by
Ike E Davis  55/M
(55/M)   
75
   Fawn
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