THE STORY

When a man says he tinkers with a book,
Is he mending [?] let’s take a closer look.

How can a horse gallop so carefully;
Watching each step, yet moving so quickly?

Our lives, exuberant hacksaw heaven;
Recycling all, a needed haven.

The blue sky is often like fresh waters.
To meditate, sometimes, is what matters.

Coretta has rivers which run so deep.
To birth’s not necessarily THAT “leap”.

Her fingers went dancing across that page;
An educated Braille touch, blindness the wage.

Your memories are a black butterfly;
Shadows in the hall, waving “BYE-BYE.”

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