The real Me, that’s not as powerless in speech, submissively wind up, passively accepting the World’s opinion, as I see fit to agree,
to keep my peace.
This Me is released in private,
as chased thoughts are gathered and carried by the wind’s tease.
As a feather light breeze,
to a mid Summer’s need, kisses my over spoken lips, and closes my eyes,
allowing it’s gripping attention to my gyrating hip’s,
wildly enchanted by my own musical, released scent.
A patented railroad arm, came to mind, it would come down, to stop and track friendenemy’s, with personal needs, to cross me, taken in by my losses, portraying fair weathered friend’s abilities, at my cost.
As my identity is fragrant upon a Linden tilia tree, spreading out my branches, as my roots are rooted in dust as its tragic story’s, is…
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