Number 37

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Clear glass
noses pressed upon it.

(And they stare -transfixed,
wonder.
believe.)

Cork pops off,
the sweet secret spills out.

(And it weaves and tumbles,
drifts.
soars.)

My fingers fly,
paintings in the air.

(And I'm the artist that nobody knows,
whispering.
feeling.)

As suddenly as it began,
all good things just reach their end.

(So I fold it up with love and care,
my secret.
my own.)

It's mine and it always will be:
the one thing you can't and won't take from me.





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