Walking With The Wind

Finding a stinging sense to motivate.

Spit my juice on the ground.
Walk with a jump, a limp
-the gait of a rabbit-
foxes a chasing,
making snide terse sound.

What is with the wind
-blows the same grows stale-
nothing too everything stinks
with no opposed habit.

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Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.

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