By blending the lines between illusion and reality,

I realize the only guarantee

is that manipulation will be a dying art form

as others lost the gift of sight in the eye of the storm.


I stumble along a stretching dirt path so familiar to me

that winds along next to the stinging pounding sea

where my tired mind wanders a step behind

so my heart can be analyzed: knotted and intertwined.


These gold keys that fit the lock of my soul are only mine to mend

although I can forge copies in the fire to hesitantly lend;

I close the floodgates in my mind so I am able to bloom

in exchange for the fresh cut mums in my room.


The smell of the sea is as strong and alluring

as the lilac petals are enduring.

These thoughts circulate in my mind far above the clouds

as I am able to take my final bow.

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