to move forward on dreams.
The trees
uprooted and ever moving
a ruddy rouge
my dead giveaway.
The mud cakes my face
a promise to remove blemishes
while you watch from afar
and I crouch at the grave.
“Listen to the sun sparkle.”
A flame on this stick.
I fizzle, barely noticed
sending you mixed messages.
seasons: a poetic journey 
Beautiful!
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