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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. Reds, greens, and blues waltz with the stars, rippling across the black of space. A hypnotic, haunting hum strums in Aurora Borealis. And sacred spiritual sounds resound in abject solitude. A collage of visual notes paints on the canvas of my soul. And mesmerized by such beauty, I pause for quiet reflection. Northern lights: 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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