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Living travesty

My breath is a living travesty, of what really breathes inside me. My veins are made of fraudulence, they are a paradox of the blood that runs rampantly through them. My skin is weak but my bones are fixed– for inside my body breathes a flower child of strength. She walks apon the earth not knowing what’s beneath her bare feet, but following the grass’s quiet voice she trusts its word. She speaks to the rivers in a voice only they understand, and she knows the trees by their first name. Her lips are ruff like the wooden bench that the moon sleeps above, but her voice slips through them so softly, and makes its way into every heart that beats. When she walks her heels kiss the earths feet, and when she sleeps her eyes reach the golden clouds. She stays up there to dream until the rain carries her back down again. The leaves beneath my skin they change with the seasons, but ever since you’ve been gone it seems that it’s always winter. My heart is a beating oddity, for it’s built out of words and poems– none of which can make me feel the way you did, but at least they still keep you breathing; Long after the wind has stopped.

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