I insist I’m just the weather, never the flood,
a breeze that happens to bend your branches low.
My words? Mere sparks. If your forests combust,
blame dry roots, not the flicker of what I know.
I don’t twist truths, I polish them smooth,
like stones made to skip where the water’s unclear.
You call it fog. I call it a mirror.
who’s to say what’s distortion or fear?
So, what if my silence blooms thorns overnight?
If my laughter’s a door you can’t pry open?
Toxins need intent. I’m just… honest light
revealing cracks in the glass you’ve been holding.
But here’s the bruise no one sees:
the louder I swear I’m not poison, the more
the air tastes of rust and the ghost of a plea
choking the soil where your roses once tore.
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