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A Little Late

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I met a tree that did speak to me
Scarred and weathered, as old as time was she.
The tree she whispered as the wind tossed her leaves
And flipped them to reveal their silvery underneaths.
She warned of the hour when man would fly deep
And lose himself in the abyss of love’s deceit.
I chuckled and told her that she had grown behind
For the hour she foresaw was eight and it was already half past nine.



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