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It’s a holier hail, is it not,
To hear t
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prerequisites to human emotion:
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Break my heart from what break yours,
for I enclose nothing more than what you have
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Mercy is in the word delight, and
hope is deeper than every pleasure of tease.
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of summery leaves who crest early
in untimely fall of snow,
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trying to stay insane was his distain,
as unmovable changes &
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I am small.
To share its innocent wisdom,
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pull down the canvas from the sky
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So many goodbyes,
so few people to say them too, so
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comes a time
when the art of time
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First captured by freedom,Then imprisoned by faith.
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to the fallen of loves,
who lost their souls in the kind eyes of death,
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Tears dry, / but their stains, / without taint of treason, / sing a poetic benediction, and / remain. / This / is the sacred spirit of / am
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to know the future of hello, how / its echo-sigh whispers its kiss from me / and you, / from its out of its ache within unresolved grief. /
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embarrassed by clouds, felled they their tears. / embarrassed by rain, the clouds darkened. / embarrassed by storm, the sun hide itself. /
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she's holding the bottle, / I'm holding her and / As she sinks, so do I. / BUT...if she is holding on to me / and I am holding on to God...
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like little pillows fit for lifting fallen refuge, / eyes eclipse the slowly budding soul, / receive the weak and weary dreams, and / merci
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true love has no hiding place. / / funny how more than a lifetime / can be alive in a moment. / not even from time can love hide. / / cre
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buttoned up halo rewrote its name upon me. / it jovially laughed, / “You’re just a song, only a song!” / rules revolved dizzyingly through
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willingly for her in spring, / my awkward intuition tangoes lusciously / in between her / answering wood / and her / self-portrait in bark. / / and where she is cut? / a fever breaks. / and where I more tha
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causality boogied backward as / cancelled moans were carried on Golden Eagle’s feet / as they circled the mountain owned by them. / summoning up courage / and giving unedited songs unwaiting / in between
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Though afloat and almost asleep, / My head dreams of life’s spiritual undertow, / Where faith in the middle of not knowing, / Rests quietly with the gentle hand of fate resting upon my chest. / My feel of feet
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Why must small, tense, noisy rooms hold our attention, / When it happened a lifetime ago? / / Because every time it happened, / The coffee
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A little red bird named Invisible / sings next to a little red leaf called Impossible. / In due season, / both will find their cathedral, /
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form themselves into
migrating myths and mouths
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one curve osculates the other, / delicate features of / spiritual oxygen, / seemed missing from the rooms of life. / he missed her so, / so
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when stunning angels embraced
the scent of letting go
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the day finally came / when I learned from deep rain / that my heart was too big for my body. / i’m made of
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the paradox of all loving poets, / whether alone or together, we / from time to time, / find ourselves keeping our heads in lush lostness,
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undressed ambition, souvenirs of sensitivity,
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