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Poetry is dead
The sky remains pillarless
The hills still sing

Gardens of deep blue
scrolls of mountain passes
stories unwritten

Postcards from roses
yellow pages of summer
sylvan letters to read

Poetry is dead
The Arctic remains south
Nightingales still sing
It pleases me
To understand,
What's wrong with me.
Despite all this pain
I managed
To have a funny and decent breakfast.
Fatal attractions.
Allure of beauty.
Images entice the mind.
Logic overwhelmed by
Creative instincts.
Resistance offered at first.
A tame surrender in the end.
Nature is self creating.
Your simple, sweet, and innocent
handwave gave me joy like no
oth­er thing in the world.
You are such an amazingly beautiful mess.
If had to think of a perfect soul mate you would be my only guess .
For so long I have tried to deny the flame that we share.
But to keep looking for something right in front of us just don't seem fair.
Life will be hard and yes we will always be stuck in the struggle.
None of that matters as long as at night it's my arms that you snuggle.
I promise to make you happy and smile till the end of days .
I will make sure In your heart is the place my unconditional love always stays...
For the karats herself
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