Growth

My face is clear it is open to the world,

But at times I feel the wind slapping at my pores.

The coldness of the violent gale burns my face,

The embodiment of rejection.

The storm brews and rises above me,

Pushing me into the dirt as if dormant.

And slowly,

ever so slowly,

The storm passes.

Leaving a cool breeze to caress my face,

For after its destruction I will rise.

Creating my own place,

And shaping the world in my image.

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