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These are my muse-born kith,
ancient men who speak
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Oh, if for once love were a mutual thing:
There is the man with whom I feel nothing but sisterly affection,
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Of numinous phantasmagoria
that tread the glassy sea,
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A chill and peasant lone extremity,
Let not it overcome thy youthful shine.
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We are as an empty tome,
you and I; From ransomed muse
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To long is to wait.
To wait is to hope.
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I must believe
that death is not
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Kalila M. Borden died on Sunday
at her home surrounded by family.
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He might have been a grandfather - the ancient creases of memories upon his face and hands, and I imagine a child on his knee, and a twinkl
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Oh Lord,
You know of my secret trepidation. This fear that is staunchly seated in the very depths of me of apathy and stagnation. When
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Private First Class Danny Murphy, honorably discharged from the United States Army July of 1974. Fought for his country, took shrapnel to
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Why do you toy with me, you wrathful woman with PMS? /
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Creamy rivers of liquid sweet / Haven, utopian, the world is complete / Omnipotent hold over all known confections / Certain monopoly of peoples' affections / Oozing with joy as it
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As wind whistles through leaves, / And pen caresses page, / The sweet scent of pavement / After newly-fallen rain, / When the suckling of b
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it is small and insignificant, / barely even noticeable. / One would have to have it pointed out / in order to see it: / a pinhole that onc
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A bee flew through my window / The other day, / Refusing to leave me alone, / Flitting and fluttering around my head, / And tromping her sickly-sweet footprints / Across my compositions. / She plotted and schemed
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Overdrawn / Consumed / Exhausted / Devoid of / Depleted / Wrought / Reduced / Drained / Stripped / Used up / Vacant / Empty / Bleary / Weary / Barren / Spent / 0 /
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I sometimes wonder / That if Heaven had a library, / What volumes would it hold: / Be it ancient tomes or modern verse / Of poesy, essay, or prose? / To what upon those dusty shelves / Are graced by cherubs’
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As ink of poesy seeps into / The fading lines of faint light blue / Upon the parchment stiff and clean / From reams of thoughts – inspired dreams – / Pulsing, beating, thriving words / Which breathe and sing wi
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These words of mine – / Outrageous, verbose – / Fall from my lips / Without any concern / For the general purpose: / Communication. / They writhe and thrash / Within me, / Tumbling, plummeting, / Down
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Creases on the map / Mirror creases on my face; / Wrinkles in my life. / Wrinkles in my life / Mirror creases on my face; / Creases on the
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As I sit before my computer screen, / filled with the deepest sense of resolve, / My palms sweating, and tremulous knees knocking / Again
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Introduction / / The task at hand is to divine the right- / -ful way in which to come to full enlight- / -enment about that which is lit’r
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“Man is dumb,” dear Plato says, “To imitate is quite a sin.” But Aristotle sees the good, and lets the valued reader in.
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Having found myself under the seeming obligations of setting forth a tale of particular horror, I put pen to paper and expound upon what is truly feared most: a
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She stands underneath
a lamp post as the night-wind flaps
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As teardrops fall from saddened eyes
Down rolls and hills of facial climes
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Oh what to do when one is bored
But write in verse with structured form
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We've had fun with all our toys
But now it's time for all the girls and boys
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At the base of the mountain
At the hem of your robe
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May this healing rain
Wash away all the pain
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It happened once upon a time
In a land not so far away
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Perhaps...
Perhaps your breath does not quicken when I am near
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