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Often times,
When my dry season meets with her wet bosom
I'd stumble and hit my cardiac against pinnacles
Of her squared mind
Searching a solace for my erring soul
As if to make autumn on harmattan's leafs
But since I can't stop wagging behind her trails
I hope she leaves more footprints
So I can travail in the twilight of her celestial doings.

*The Ghostwrita👻*

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