Jumping from the morning, but
who's wife sting,
as how we face the upcoming
After collapsing nightmares; no longer hung,
and dreams in which I cling.
On a hearty past of tragedy,
When we face the summer,
and motions moving ocean deep,
the waves of the past and of the weak,
and we're hopeless until the dream, almost.
Not longer, Not I try to dwell, not.
I'm aroused by the sleeping summer that awaits,
and all that before, never well,
is an opening!
At each step in the day is Wimbledon,
and faces of the latter is only the crowd,
and with soon existence of that feeling we finally won,
is approaching loud in prayers sound.
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Comments about this poem (The Becoming by Rebecca Stansfield )
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