Moving In Slow Motion Only Toward You
P Patti Masterman
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The tree branch reaches, toward the light:
While I; I'm lost, inside your night.
The wind plays, toying with the birds:
While I; I'm tumbled, along your words.
The day goes marching toward the night:
While I; I'm crawling, within your sight.
If you were wind, and tree, and bird:
I'd have no use, for this tired world.
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