Wildflower growing in Memory.
Were they the songs of my Father’s own?
Placed in the veins of my mother’s body
Discovered in grandmother’s poem tomes.
Smaller than anything I ever knew.
The Eyes of the Pansies so detailed.
Pupils of tears spilled in Heaven’s dews of Heaven.
I like that it goes past the Measure See.
I never fell apart though I was broken.
I merely switched feet and toncinued, ounce.
Quantity of my Merciful parent
The poem as a Peony a Book as Home.
Because they TOuched me first I touched them Too.
As Releasing a Century I Knew
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