Still the Orange Morning Rise
Dripped in broth, our chicken fingers lie
Our inabilities, our sorrows, our griefs
Cringing in agony, to be in, other ways
Mirror reflection of our masked pain
In a world of laughter and show off.
Words seem only an inevitable
Redundancy of a reason
To hold the ground.
Dripped in broth, our chicken fingers lie
Still the orange morning rise,
Unashamed, unyielding
everyday.
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