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Time's weaves its cryptic pattern from our dust
emotions, motions, smooths with timely gust.
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Happy anniversary my darling
Thankful for the day you gave me your hand
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From cradle to the grave red tape surrounds
sad citizen stakes wasteful battlegrounds
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Love is acceptance passion lit, Overcomes expedience, ‘valid reasons’, ‘common sense’, even though the ‘perfect fit’ is seldom seen, takes
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There lies a sonnet in the notebook with
the silver string wrapped 'round the bulky spine
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Poems channel syllables to song, opening the valvelets which control each heart-string, pulsing messages which bowl towards brain keep, wit
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I want to stand beside you in the rain
To watch the garden washed by summer showers
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I lie amidst a pride of dandelions. Their odiferous breaths overwhelm me.
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The search for sense amidst life’s solitude
Has schools of thought turned inside out for years.
Is happiness goal sought, or flight from
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Two brothers, Gwydion and Gilfeathwy
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Cozy warm blanket, crackling fireplace,
quietly watching the flames hiss and pop,
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Each night they slept in hope of epic quest,
the tropic seas’ soft phosphorescent blues
cast spells on golden dreams, - a siren muse -
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Trust is a dangerous notion, judgement's curse
A poison potion, deranging the mind,
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The sun descends to bring about the night
And with the sun the lover's mood is downed
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Plenty of fireflies demonstrate the Hidden mysticism of life's design
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With feline grace she haunts my mind
The brightest star upon my sky
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Now every bubble blown by her sweet lips will trap a dream within for all to see,
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Her pure white skin excites my questing eye
Her innocence is begging to be spoiled
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Jack Frost has made of Spring a lover, for
his cold-swoll’n lips consume her wavering,
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A heavy weight is lifting from my mind And so I'm sitting here and feeling good
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Fragile guard, unseen protector, Sanity, how frail thou art.
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AND CURIOUSLY women often bow !
PLANNED obsolescence may await men now !
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Up high rose a silver moon,
Whilst I recalled my love of old.
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Beneath a wilting weeping willow tree
All bound in silver bands I found a box
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Dark is the soft call of the mourning dove
Upon hearts which have lost desire to trust.
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