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My story has now grown old,
like a disabled old lady,
in a permanent suppression,
inspired by technical support,
hooked up on a drip,
dripping verses of antibiotics.
It talks about hope,
in a package, wrapped up as a present.
It talks about the beauty, the youth, the eternal love,
and the alchemic transformation, into lead,
with a speck of logic.
But no, my story is not like an old lady.
She was never young to get old now.
She is not disabled, and neither suppressed.
She never speaks, and she is not concern about hope,
youth, or even eternal love.
Just sitting there and observes,
sitting next to the big long window where you can see the blue…
The blue that overflows from the sky's hollow hands
The green that sings lying on the grass
The yellow that dances out in the field of wheat
The red that flowers up on the window perch
And the white….
the white, hanging off the clouds with no concerns at all…
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