What of

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what of hope
but empty promises
if you do not
dream of dandelion fields
and look for four-leaf clovers
in pavement cracks
sometimes?
(even though you’ve never seen one)

what of ambition
but unbridled fantasies
if you do not
bellow your wild ideas
to the skies?
(the ones that make
the earth tremble
and the seas part way)

what of love
but heartbreaks and mistakes
if you do not
try to swallow it
but find its fluttery wings
tickling the pit of your stomach
leaving feathers on your tongue
when you least expect it to?
(the 2am I miss yous
and 2.05am tinder convos
tastes strangely like vodka)

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