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Nov 2013
Infantile, juvenile, call it what you will
For now I shall believe that my life's been one big spill
and for notches in Your belt, or notches on Your bedpost
I ran along the snowy banks vying for lost hope
My bare feet turned to ice blocks and for me that's my burden
I did it only to inform the other birds that You'll lure in
To forewarn them of the gentle hands that mend broken wings
because in the beginning all is heard while angels sing
and maybe by the end I’ll harbor brand new feathers
but the fingerprints upon them are now far too much to weather
Sat atop an emerald pedestal in a cage spun of gold
A window has become all that's left of old
So fair warning to all whose veins are weak:
don't give away your hopes to just anyone that will let you speak
For what it's worth my wing does seem improved
Although the brokenness was my only form of proof

Written by
Dandy  The District of Denial
(The District of Denial)   
   Niveda Nahta
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