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“Solider” by Ina Storck

I have known the mundane tiredness of cacti.Something far from shrill, sweating in the sun,weeping in the rain, yawning through the day,standing ten feet tall, falling six feet below.Featuring tortured arms,muscly stalks of a fatigued stature.Yearning for dance, for movement, for a ball,creating the most lifeless sense of life.Swaying in the moonlight, armored and alone,shields of spines encapsulated in droopy shadows.Arms held high above bowed heads,illuminated by periwinkle hues of moonlit sand.My mothers most despised pin cushion, green and lean,something that is so misconstrued in its lonesome.Gathering in groups, but far from one another’s touch,isolated for years, feeding from the blue sky, painted by shade.I stare at an army of lonely soldiers,petrified in their stance, frozen for eternity,for they are just cacti.

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