My poem follows:
“Around”
I would call Earth this.
But, we should really call it these.
A marble must go into the bag.
Can you feel the flowers?
Heat goes upon your degree.
Every turn comes out of it!
People reach inside me for crossing.
My mother grows on a cloud now.
Angels will smell their gusts within.
Find yourself under this bright bridge.
When elephants open, our jungle comes in.
Alex. J.
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