Rapunzel.

Little flowers dot the sky
and it’s your face, my dear old friend,
smoothed and lit with a smile
that is both sarcastic and realer
than anything else
because that’s the way you are.
And your father is a dictator
in a kingdom of lush resources
and you are Rapunzel in a tower full of music.
You dance on the piano
and drive around in circles,
on jammed city roads and hilly bumpy roads,
and start to grow your hair long.

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