You reach
You soar
Your heart at your fingertips
You
Touch
You
Brush
At what should be
But, my child,
Smoke and mirrors
Is what it oft turns out to be
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You reach
You soar
Your heart at your fingertips
You
Touch
You
Brush
At what should be
But, my child,
Smoke and mirrors
Is what it oft turns out to be
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Anon, Like the Author of this Poem • Mar 15, 2016 at 7:43 pm
Nice poem – who wrote this?