Poeatree
Poeatree
I Poet climbs in Poeatree
to far up high
where verse is free
And prose it buds
on thinks and thoughts
right before as fruits their sought
I poet sits just like the dew
that formed on Poetry that’s new
between his thoughts and what I think
just like the red mixed up in pink
I Climb back down for time permits
no more of this poetic fit
I'll pick back up
I knows its true
When Poetry next
demands its due
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