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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.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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