A shower I could have, or a flood
All white, composed by kind minds
and a fluid meticulous gathering of emotion
If she walked among us, I might cry
were it not for the mole on her chest
Though one day we could pummel glass we chose not to
So once the jacket goes on, once the label gets placed
A riot of fire cackles and we glance on, energised
Punctured by her own corner
These roofs you’ve stared at
Mercilessly hoping they’d change, it’s a career in buckets
My new blue tunic, if love was food you’d have no place here
I am an epic leg up cajoled by her election
A thin vein of pigment stranded among such very plain skin
as to a ghost, it’s possible to gun at this one
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