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Elicited from heaven's floor -- sweet kisses That baited men to bliss, to weave worn beards,
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Did not these living globes through slender beams
O'er sunlit limbs aspire? To be known
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Fly, foul angels fly above the writer's page;
there sweep down truths from engines razed at dawn
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What trespasses before all breathing slows
Beneath dense canopies of pillowed sighs,
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I am he who strikes the flint which sparks the flame,
who proffers tears where thorns pin blinded eyes,
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Along entropic tides of crashing mind,
Disorder's surf, in currents tread and rolled,
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Do reasons sparkle midst the morning dew?
Within refracted light of sun's clear spray;
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Built on Triumphant Terror's name,
Our Emperor's words risk raising scorn,
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I've passed beyond the flames but cannot feel
What bickering sores have freshly made to flow:
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With verses, weaved harmonious and right,
We muster all these Patriots to War,
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Democracy has nothing left to do,
From high in soaring towers of plate glass,
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Shall I close my mind and rest
In darkness, were the Sun lays muted?
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The Land's last dawn sees fading sun-rays droop,
That, tentative, once warmed its frozen floor
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To find what bides beneath familial love,
When cloth is washed of wealth and landed gilding,
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What word is pressed, which to the most offends? Uproots the swarms, drives righteous rage to sting,
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Through all the world, to find the dawn, I look
For one iota where I might begin,
-
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Where none may ever stand and live to tell,
Within these final resting places' halls:
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What fragile fabric binds together faith? That sublime cloak beyond compare or measure,
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Much work I have to do -- these gifts need wrapping; Bright ornaments to hang on this old tree,
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Sometimes -- I really don't understand:
Why a child dies for an M.R.E.?
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Until these snow drenched groves step out from shade,
Where deeper cast they found descent to dread,
-
Above this covered place the north wind plays;
Her frigid breath bids fall its last goodbyes;
-
(i)
Above this covered place the north wind plays;
-
White midnight flakes fall startled all around: Their lolling dance brings hope for winds' sojourn;
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Your gift to me
May oft' depart but not the sorrow.
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No frames of reference gird this endless waste,
Where wounds drip, bleeding, fresh that will not scar;
-
For my whole life, I've spent beside my own Dark fears that cleave in hate to all I've made,
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I will not suffer you, who stole my muse,
To sing no praises higher than your own, [Petrarchan Sonnet]
-
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Fear aside, I'll see you through the end
Clutching darkness by her whistful hiss-- [Villanelle]
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I lost my life beneath her umber eyes,
For sympathies that drowned amongst my own,[Villanelle]
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amber, orange, gold --
painted sighs fly on wind's breath
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Dreams are not real.
Mental images, subconscious
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