November 23, 2011
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I feel the summer air, smelling of cinnamon and roses, but is it really the freezing December wind tainted by hate and poverty?

I see love on a boy's face as he tells a girl she's beautiful, could it be just a facade which will leave her with a shattered heart and bitter thoughts?

I hear the joyful squeals of a little girl as her daddy spins her in the air, or are they well disguised shrieks of terror, begging for someone to save her before her childhood is stolen?

To reach out and pet a soft sheep, or reach out and be attacked by a well hidden wolf?

The ground looks like concrete, ready to withstand the world crashing down;

Maybe it's just a gray colored tissue, which will shred when a intricate flower blossom, delicately begins floating down, falling down, crashing down,

Resulting with the seams of your reality being torn to pieces, unraveling, your picaresque memories shattering and falling in pieces at your feet. 

Pick them up, start over, and see your world as you will.

Reality?  Or rose colored glasses?

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