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Wrinkling Poems - Poems about Wrinkling


Premium Member My Skin Is Wrinkling
Might we all have an expiration date, A notation reading “best if used by?” Spoiled if not given proper handling A critical concern now up for debate. I’ve noticed lately my skin is wrinkling My eyes are becoming rheumy, I fear, I’m clearly not as good as I used to be The milk in my refrigerator is blinking. Past my prime, still I’m...

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Categories: wrinkling, age, humor,
Form: Light Verse
Premium Member Of Allegorical Wrinkling
Once again we’re wedged in a wrinkle of time in our lives; a wrinkle that can’t be so easily ironed out and pressed away. Yet the ironing board of solutions remain up and challenging steam continues to gush out; however, conflicting political sizing complicates the strained ironing out process…stalling progress. Those of us familiar with social distance look on in curious awe at...

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Categories: wrinkling, allegory, analogy, endurance, extended
Form: Prose Poetry



Premium Member Wrinkling the Sky
Undulating waves of color cascade over ebony skies. And greens and blues waltz with the stars, rippling across the black of space. As sacred spiritual sounds resound, in abject solitude. A hypnotic, haunting hum strums in Aurora Borealis. A collage of visual notes, The Northern Lights pluck my heartstrings. And mesmerized by their music, I pause for quiet reflection. They are as intangible as the ethereal breath of...

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Categories: wrinkling, beautiful, how i feel,
Form: Blank verse
Wrinkling
Give me not your style today : the visceral truth, liberated from painkillers. Spying singles out the flesh after the resentment of torture to do more wrong ; going away in yesterday puts the life in apocalyptic shade, the orange condoles for dark when I lie still on flames of sandalwood, setting the sun bleed in blue eyes of lonely sea. I am again sleepwalking on salt lake...

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Categories: wrinkling, art,
Form: ABC
Wrinkling
Give me not your style today : the visceral truth, liberated from painkillers. Spying singles out the flesh after the resentment of torture to do more wrong ; going away in yesterday puts the life in apocalyptic shade, the orange condoles for dark when I lie still on flames of sandalwood, setting the sun bleed in blue eyes of lonely sea. I am again sleepwalking on salt lake...

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Categories: wrinkling, art
Form: I do not know?




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