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Perching on an age old willow,
hanging through the threads of a silver skyline,
is a shackled bird, a thought,
caged in a breaking rhyme.
destiny makes it flow,
through the waves of an earthly chime,
making the voice linger as an echo,
so harsh, yet so sublime.
in the idea of going away,
or staying close to a no divide,
is a feeling of belonging,
though there ain't a defined side.
And then hardships fall and break apart,
making you trip out and off your stride,
they may take your legs, they may take your hands,
but your thoughts be your wings,
for the penultimate flight.
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