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Early Hours of Morning Glory

Buried things burst upwards

As a child reaching for the stars

Metamorphosis runs wild

Only to be heard silently

This is the morning glory.

Air stiff with desire

Time stands heavy, thick as fog

Moonlight lingers in the petals of purple hyacinths

Whom cradle their weighed sorrows

Igniting the Earth wordlessly

A merciless beauty bestowed

Pink carnations cock their heads

Starved from the tenebrous night

Bleeding hearts dripping from their stems

Fall onto the wetted grass

Roots curl, clawing onto the distant soil

For where would we be without it?

Written by Grace Bugin

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