Bemused wanderings

What if I gave you,
Pieces of me?
Would you tear them all apart?
Or string them up like poetry?
Would you be admiring the changing phases,
Or shunning them as bizzare?
Would you rather scoff at the artist?
Or admire the art?
Will your words be the ones that stick,
Or just the ones fleeting by?
And now that you have seen,
The raging storms inside,
Would you rather be a runaway,
Or a promise to me for life?

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