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And so goes my life
wasted seeds I hold inside
with a little dash of sweetness
and a gathering of chill
twirling and swirling, and swishing
scrumptious helping of fruits
or the sharp kick of salt
and then there are days when the tang is bitter sweet
twisting the face but caressing hearts in heat
and so they drink, in my name
upon shaded yard by great Oak trees,
or in toasts of glee.

I sound like Shangri-la
but a place I certainly am not.