The hiding shades of clover,
All wrapped in finite peace.
Resting and stumbling in all,
A puppet of grieving destiny.
The shiver resembling me,
A paragon of self-styled despair.
Whom to cast for peace,
A snake or a dove along time.
Twelve hours of warmth,
Another twelve of cold.
Heart and mind going separate,
Yet I stare,looking bold.
I am my own tree,
With no one to believe.
In many friends of fakeness,
I miss the one meant for me.

Tags: Self

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