Best Time Is Ripe Poems

Over the plain of sorrows
creeps the gentle beating of a sigh,
a breath too soft for trumpeting,
a faith too self-engrained to move the world.
It is the stuff of spirit haunts;
it is the frailest spark of love
that never hungers,  never needs return.

Beneath the cover of the...

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Hold on mister
It's not yet time
If you strain you will blister
For to wait is not a crime...

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