Looking like a stained glass reverie tree.

Tasting like congealed suet and sugar.
Flailing like a lukewarm morning breeze, free
from hating life because I mistook her:
All of that. I embody today, plus
the vacant seats of languid onlookers,
whom I've made stand for a two-bit applause
and fear my bids like some ten-cent hookers:
Feeling like $27.00 cash,
though not too far from 100%,
I'd much rather inflame before I crash,
and give up the burn because it is Lent:
So that when Easter hits, I'm A-OK –
whatever that means's whatever you say. 
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