Our bodies are not temples, 

I will not be invaded as such.

We are ecosystems. 

Made of grit, and blood

and change.

Packed with multitudes of intricacy,

we love like gushing streams. 

We wound like throned bush. 

Hurt by humanity like hunted prey. 

As we burn, as we are cut down,

As we are wounded, crippled, abused,

We still grow. 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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