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Poetry

Beautiful

This life.

It is not what they have shown it to be.

The cold stone walls,

the repeating days in chains of grey.

This life is the art I hold in my own hands.

The art of my body as it stretches into the morning.

The art of breakfast as I eat the colours of the sun.

This life is what I ask it to be.

And, today, I ask it to be

beautiful.

By brookecutler2

Liver of life, lover of everything. 💕

2 replies on “Beautiful”

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