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Blue Survivor
 





Blust'ring wind beats poor little bluebell,
bends her cruelly, yet she still stands,
clings to earth, to grass as well.
How she wished for two hands.
Brave, pretty flower,
calm shall arrive...
not your hour.
Survive!
Ah.








By cherryk

© 2019 cherryk (All rights reserved)

 

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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - THE NONET FORM (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - THE NONET FORM (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - THE NONET FORM (challenge has been closed)


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