In the words of a poem my speech may be impaired|
Captured dictations slither in to your skin|
Phases wrapped in phrases|
Ridicules left behind in praises|
But we stride and march beyond the line|
Perhaps My words will one day make emotional zeniths for you to climb|
Helping you see the forgotten lands you left behind|
And explore the new purlieus that await beyond|
I think these are hopes we all cherish when we compose poems or prose.
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