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A morning glory is shy in its
Waking hour,
Secluded in a tight-fisted bud
It turns its face to

The sun,
And blooms in fleeting flashes

Of colour

But with a similar haste,
The same sun that beckoned the bud

To bloom
Sucks the vibrancy from its frangible flesh through

Dry lips

And all too soon the morning fades as that same sun

Winks goodbye
And wilted petals grace the fertile floor,
Cascading down like used sheets of used paper





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