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Deterioration
The morning,
The sun over one small isle of green land
—smells of freshly-disturbed ground:
roots and rot—
Wax and feathers,
A father’s loving, protective words
—heard but not heeded—
Wasted.
High noon,
The roll of the deep blue, oppressing horizon
—roaring a challenge to young ears,
low, but defined, dignified—
Brilliance and warmth,
Arms spread wide, light-bringing angel
—craving the heavens,
unyielding in pursuit—
Falling.
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P.S.: I also like the pic. good choice. I'm a California girl, hence why i like the beach pic.