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Every bee buzzes In a conquest of pollination And every flower is touched In a search for something sweeter. Every rose grows thorns To draw the blood of its predators, Potentially decimating Its love for a lasting survival. Every stinger presses Into the flesh of its opponent Without the keen ability To consider sweet surrender. There is validity in discomfort Which nature washes away, The unguarded prospects Of production.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2010

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Date: 4/21/2010 4:28:00 AM
I enjoyed the poem. A fine write
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