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Dance Puppet
March 25, 2011
Inebriation of the senses through a synthetic kind of love,
Your mind is a feather (probably an understatement).
Emotions and actions following the wind,
Nothing to lead your soul and you fall.
You give way to the puppeteer, dance puppet,
And you die until a new dance becomes fashioned.
One leaf descends into the abyss of winter,
another follows, followed by another.
But I am the tree,
I will stand the test of time.
© Julie K., Vancouver, WA
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