Falling. Spiraling.
Locked in a tailspin,
and doomed to crash.
Surely it would have been,
if not for the blessed winds.
A gust to lift me.
Another to straighten me.
Still more to push.
All to make me fly once more,
long after I had nothing left.
Who I was is gone.
I died in a destruction that didn’t occur.
What does that make me now?
Poetry
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