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I Am From...
I am from the wind whistling through the branches,
And the echoes of a frantic voice in an empty valley.
The dust that pirouettes through the air,
And the last pale light as the sun performs its vanishing act.
I am from proud purple bruises blooming like spring flowers,
And the crunch as shoes crush bits of nature one by one,
The smack of a worn cleat against a ball,
And the cheers of a happy collective of oblivious kids.
I am from heart-racing frantic hope,
And the pound of a raging migraine,
The hoarse scream of a raised voice,
And melodic lullabies wavering gently.
I am from the one missing puzzle piece,
And a coffee stain painting new furniture.
The torn leaves that skydive in autumn,
And the crunch of dying sun-dried grass.
I am from memories curled into nooks and crannies,
And a long twisted history of lucky chances,
The changes catastrophizing through lives,
And from promises that break, shatter, and bleed like glass.
I am from the pop of an August raspberry against your tongue,
And the fresh breeze over a mud puddle after a storm,
The tornado of emotions clashing at dusk,
And the thump of a closing book after the story is done.
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