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ARE WE ALIVE OR IS IT THE BREEZE THAT BREATHES THROUGH WE.

ARE WE ALIVE OR IS IT THE BREEZE THAT BREATHES THROUGH WE.

Does it bare life.
Does it stand strong.
Does the wind fling it around.
Singing the winds song.
Is it dead, stood still.
Rigid.
Rigamortis.
Yet the air breathes through its vessel.
Perceiving life’s liveliest wishes.
An instrument with no player.
A silent sound – minus the mute.
A foot of the climber adorned with no boot.
A dragon – no wings.
How does one fly?
The day – no night.
A lid – minus eye.
The arc minus rainbow.
Hologram in a bin.
Cherry pie in the sky.
The portal within.

Poetry Bec Hart.

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