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Pensive
If you look underneath peace, you hear
the pleas and cries
of the brokenhearted,
the screams
of the tortured
and
…
the silence of the oppressed.
If you tiptoe through the Valley of Happiness, you find pockets
of
reflections.
The top of tomorrow awaits colors I cannot see,
but feel,
lingering just out of reach…
The baby’s cry,
a reluctant orange,
a 3 am bathroom trip,
hovering between
asleep
and
awake,
not knowing what is real.
The turquoise
smooth and ancient
valuable,
bro ken
but
even prettier
because it
Is.
The hiding place of rain
shivers underneath the tones of a tune
on the edge of my lips
stuck
in
my
throat
a whisper
a
reluctant
messenger.
Mischief…
Tense,
as the air
just
before
a
thunderstorm,
the world charged.
lightning strikes.
At the edge of silver
a blizzard,
light—obscured
walking into the sun,
soaking it up
letting it seep into chilled veins,
tasting it…savoring it
as if,
it’ll never pass me by,
again.
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