It’s the girl of all the winds
who falls in to pieces,
from a roof top to another
in her red-stockings.
marsh land of her tears
are the passage of spring
upon the heavyness of her eye lids
It’s the girl of all the winds,
at this moment in time
herself,hers only saint guardian.
selfish of her own pain
at the mistaken place,
perhaps
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Published by boolour
You don't know me from the wind
you never will, you never did
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