if only i had gained wisdom and sage.
but i still have much foolishness within me,
my imagination grows wild with possibilities.
if but a clove would ward off past ghosts,
that haunt my dreams of a white picket fence.
there are seeds of doubt to be sown and grown,
an apple hanging off that branch once more.
or will your eye catch the ivy growing instead,
and cast your gaze upon the myrtle on the ground?
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