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Subjectivity
by t. wagner

Someone said my words are a street musician
playing a guitar next to a hat full of quarters,
for an audience of passers by

Someone said my words are a mural
painted on the wall of an old office building,
read by many, remembered by a few.

Someone said my words are a school yard ballet.
Choreographed by the blind,
performed by children too clumsy to know better.

She says my words are magic
silk scarves pulled
from tattered sleeves

She should know, since she has
all the originals.

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