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Sometimes

Sometimes There is too much silence To write Or too many motes Frolicking in a grin of light But at others, the urn Of senses overflows (who knows? who knows?) But here the slick street stretches Like a wet flame Tasting what will be, has been But illumines not beginning or end only what this pity, sweet pity of my all little ever has been now? transitory

Copyright © | Year Posted 2007




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