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A blanket of warm evening grasses welcomes our bodies.
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How do you move from one prison to another?
The vigilance of acceptance.
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Who is this paranoid king?
Who is this Royal One-issue Zealot?
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Is this write a profanation of elegance?
Is also my life?
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Oh God,
the sadness strayed upon me like nerves in waves of dearth?
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You rose from that dark place that is
watched with a filament, grief-filled eye.
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I hermitage a rarely silent, prison yard.
I peer at the familiar
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grief inhabits even the mundane
from the most ethereal touch of God to
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Behold,
my smiling wash of warm woven sun,
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As an atheist needs a god to not believe in,
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Below,
an ocean of water.
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Dedicated, delicate fingertips
dip into the loving conformation
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This well-beaten path fills our age with devoted desire, as
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tap tap tap...
our inner dignity of deep diamonds unfastened her tinsel tongue
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Your voice
offered into me,
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Young pain, old pain,
by Timothy Cameron
27 lines, 4 comments,
on Dec 4 6:19 AM 2007. In Abuse, Hope, Life, Love, Pain, Personal, Sad, Spiritual, Thoughts
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Grown deep in dark love and nobility of illness,
we fathom a suspense equaled only in temptation.
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No one really knows where the final word goes.
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Before hell had anyone in it,
even before hell became full of forgiven people,
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Like birds,
vulnerably beautiful people call for fragility to move fre
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Building upon moments of an ostensibly absolute, obsolete silent language,
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upon my youthful countenance, his deep furrowed brow etched its studi
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Unstable obscurities oppose self-assured, unreserved anxiety.
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