the Cycle

March 22, 2018
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She was sad,
A blue hue among the yellows and reds
The tips of the umbrellas leaking rainwater like an old faucet
Like the tears that stained the bedsheets on cold lonely nights
Like flower petals falling and rotting back into the soil,
Back into the cycle.
She was, maybe more importantly, trapped.
The flesh she owned seemed inhuman, disconnected
If she couldn't grow wings, how did she plan to fly?
There was no fear of heights.
She only feared falling.
Rotting.
Back into the soil,
Back into the cycle.






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