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C & m a a
o see l o n g w a y
m a l o n g out
e n n h
d e r i n g r c
y o o
u & me
g
any w h e r e (but).
Image of painting by Juan Gris, 'Still Life with checkered tablecloth' (1915), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
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Drizzle
The muse has been muted while we are both listening for some reason- we have both observed; Profound is not discovery, Epiphany is no certa...
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Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
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A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
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Sun lifting the veil of purple sky- might bronze forge strength pungent as the turned dirt? Thirsting through exposition, hi...

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