Another Chance

September 4, 2012
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My only gift has become a curse,
Enchanting, distant, endless,
Flies with me; upon each leaf,
Whispers a thought to my ear,
Until a new idea,
Succumbs into mind,
And forms like a flower,
All because of a bud,
Never meant to be planted,
And still seems daunting,
Though it never vanished,
Through fire or age,
Followed me through time,
And bloomed,
In truth this evil sprout,
Grasped to me forever,
For the sake of the coming,
Dawning to another door.

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Zeesrock said...
Sept. 17, 2012 at 9:29 pm
This intricate poem truly is full of talent.
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