literature

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Literature Text

I was called
onto songs so sweet that
even berries of a wild spring
faded to cease
in taste that rolls upon
my only mimosa lips
refraining to open
for the trespassers who stood
with big bold signs

through every season
my arms dissipated a stream
of life whimpering
against weeds growing alongside
because I believed
giving away in truth brought
contentment

and all of me instead
swayed into
a bonfire
until I tried saving
every piece
of my testimony
so that I could live
at the little banks
of angel pools

forever

hidden beneath winter breeze
I am left being nothing
but a mist of love
sheepishly finding
to exist
“Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.” - Oscar Wilde
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