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The Inheritance Tax

Please do not underestimate the fragile girl who has been broken.
The grown woman climbs barbed wire fences unapologetic,
her jagged and cut limbs battle cries that honor the scars.
Bleeding profusely shrugging off the pain, she is awake and determined.
The girl is immune to the swirling, incessant noise hovering overhead.
Simply choosing to embrace the beautiful and worst kinds of misery.
Nah, man she’s better than wasted breath.
Dancing the best soft shoe tap she can muster,
melody and movement sets her free.
Embers burn fast and hot as the dust piles grow mountains.
Molten ash reminders that blood dries to bone to dirt to swirling dust.
Just like that a solitary tree emerges from the sand and provides shelter.
The desert weeps evergreen, her inheritance tax.



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