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Symptoms of the World

blossom

Early Spring blossom, white and delicate, like the things made out of paper, that littered my childhood

bud

The outstretched fingertips, the tip of the tongue, whisper

tree

Summer winds blowing, strongly across ripe wheat, rippling darker currents

Gate

Time is spent, slipping past the path, following scents of promise

path
seed head

I am not sure, that I , completely remember

thorn

The gentle movement of leaves, the echo of empty halls

fence

And there are some things, that we just, don't talk about

water

rain and time, reflect back to us, only those things, we choose to recall

grass

Forgetting the rest

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