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The Red Cycle
March 7, 2011
Running our lives ‘round red roses
Petals floating to the floor.
“He loves me, he loves me not.”
Undesired remains calling back for a second chance.
It’s too late a new beautiful flower has been picked.
The new flower,
Used until all that is left,
Are the lonely wallows of,
“He loves me, he loves me not.”
And as the next season arrives,
The frost bites,
But the shower revives,
And the sun shines bright.
Life goes on . . .
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