The Sunday Whirl

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There is an old tale
with a name I forgot
that talks of the wind
on a day when its hot
about cream in a cup
for a kitten brand new
about a shimmering star
or a home left askew
It tells of the sin
of a man left forlorn
with a grin on his face
waiting to be reborn
so the conduct you see
rises up across miles
or uneasily close
with the crying and smiles

©2021 CBialczak Poetry

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