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a Garden and the Worms
Red, velvet tear drops
flutter delicately
to the green
that encases it’s heartbeat.
Though sometimes I see it grow,
gravity’s influence still
seems to cause a slouch
in it’s otherwise perky thorns.
The sun smiles,
but without a tear
trickling from above
it tends to curl
and splotch with jaundice,
like an infection.
When beauty frowns,
I see broken mirrors;
the light refracts
kaleidoscopic images
that soon have no purpose,
but cause such
gregarious preception
to the eye of the beholder.
We truly see dying delicacy
as we experience
covert existence:
our lives
full of paradox.
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