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Rain that falls like A thousand glass beads On the ocean’s surface From high clouds of Diction and consonance. Lush pastorals ambling through A yellow forest on worn roads,
My Ars Poetica: A Different Kind of Animal Nothing turns a stomach like the rancid aura that cradles the furry carcass of a life that once was.
Who said poetry had to be pretty?
Poems are eyes And pictures. A scene you were not present for But still somehow lived.
We are all made from dust and to dust we shall return, the only secret is landing on the part of the desk that doesn't get cleaned often.