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A Lost Reflection
Like the whispering wind— it’s sly and cunning. Sometimes it’s a dreadful draft And tiny marks appear on your sensitive skin. At other times, that breeze is beautiful As it shifts the grass and the flowers in the field And your hair gently moves to its beat. Sometimes it brings news of a frightening storm And a cloudburst pours along the wind, Creatively crafting a river of agony. As it subtly comes to a pause And the sun peeks through the formidable fog, You’re left in solitary with nothing, But only thoughts of what’s to come.
Like the whispering wind— it’s sly and cunning. Sometimes it’s a dreadful draft And tiny marks appear on your sensitive skin. At other...
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