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Synesthesia
April 10, 2019
The shape of the past fits inside the scars of a soldier.
If you look underneath peace, you might hear the suffering of the past.
The enemy of green hides between august and march.
White moves in a straight line, falling when its cold.
A baby’s cry is a bright yellow peaking through your window in the morning.
A star sounds like the yellow crackling of a bonfire on a saturday night.
© Ashley B., North Port, FL
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