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Too Many Angels

By Jada Jones

 

Walk outside embraced securely by the air massaging your hair and kisses to your face

 challenges invisibly laced with revelations in stealth mode pirouette into your space.

Clear mind, mildly stained heart pumping residue so pure beating a saturated decorous gift

pavement, dirt soaked with sunlit sparkles, cracks, fades and stands at lift.

Single waves of weave strands dancing in the wind, dingy and separated from its weft

at a glance garbage kites flying in procession, keep moving you’re almost there.

 Sirens, sweat, fear, cars swiftly pass you there’s a crime you’re not the owner

Exhale, relax, why fear, I’m good, no consequence keep moving, no they turned the corner.

Burn, pierced, intense, can’t breathe, waning, no air, no sun, no trash, no weave, alone, I’m gone!

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