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and how can I ever tell myself that love isn't real because;
as I run my fingertips through the larchmere waves ebbing so gently like wisteria petals falling in my lawn,
ocean breaks into its sweet melody, hypnotic murmuring under Selene's gallant gold gown,
slumbering in Poseidon robe; the water wears its tranquility like a serene crown,
my reflection illuminated under the modern lavender of starlight;
makes me wonder if it's love only when we surround?
- like surrendered clouds, we could learn to love ourselves, and it will always surmount nonetheless.
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Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
