there they stayed, flaming cathartic wings, tiny pieces of paper, on the currents, asking for favors, finding tongues sweet like pie filling.
the sapling branch, tosses about, holding on to each beat, the timber timer, the sprout looking for the suns glow, usually finding shade, in the selfishness of age.
but the budding holds the truth, as roots tap the mineral questions, the answers reverberate enlightening the now! there is being!
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