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realization is a cursory word
struck hard to your sensory-self
something heir loomed or achieved,
but backed with a malevolent wind;
breath-stench, voice and spit.
when it comes, it strikes at high.
it shocks you with the most dominance
a few words tossed around can hold.
your composure racked out of alignment.
your senses overthrown to the foes.
the series of uncompromising duels
with a day-in/day-out occurrence,
they drag out, the make you enervated.
you're left worn and conquered in the heart,
and there's nothing you can do.
realization is what blinds you,
it is what keeps you cautious to
everyone except those worth the wary.
it's gotten to you, your eyes aren't
as bright as they were years ago.
you seem to get so frustrated by
the smallest things now, it's like
you have no will over yourself to enjoy.
your realization busted your nerves and
left you without your needed sympathy.
it came to you and stole what good was.
all you can reflect is forlorn thought
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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