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Authenticity is

Bent at a slight angle.

Her soft hair drapes in loosened curls

With a nostalgic Autumn sun

At her shoulder

As she inhales the sharp, clean tang

Of small, flowering Sweet Annie.

Authenticity is walking a dusty path

Holding a handful of children’s laughter

And letting them adorn her

Windswept footsteps.

Each sound carries on the

Chilled afternoon breath of the apple trees

As they sigh in reverie around her.

Authenticity is wearing

A cracked smile

And underneath she is beautiful.

She’s touched the shoulders of

Old people, young people,

Radiant people,

People who deserved more, or got off easy.

Authenticity is tired

Because she has been used

Because in this day and age

It’s “authentic"

Plastered all over their faces

Authentic smiles without braces.


Authentic untangles into the real world,

Or so it seems.

Authenticity is in childhood love

Timid hand-holding under stelectric skies

And true intentions.


So Authenticity walks her dusty path

And a kiss is given, somewhere, on the cheek

Beneath a Sycamore tree in Autumn

Where the wind steals away the watchful sun.

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