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He calls himself a runaway,
A bandit, a thief, a liar,
But I have seen a sacred place
Trapped inside of him,
And he is just as human
As he claims not to be.

He wanders the backroads at twilight,
Whistling, wondering, waiting,
Watching for a double rainbow;
He’s seen six, and is living for the seventh,
“Another sin,” he’ll say,
And maybe he’ll never find it,
Or perhaps he’ll be released, somehow.
Poem based on the prompt: Write a poem using the words and phrases "runaway," "double rainbow," "another sin," "somehow released," and "runaway."

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The ******* the train is nothing more
Than an illusion, or perhaps a delusion;
What is she, if not the bitter, bitter dregs,
The last of the burnt coffee, gone cold,
The watered down scrapings off the bottom
Of the cup we call life?
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“Love is like a reckless twin; I’m giving in.”
Scandipop on the radio,
The scent of marijuana hanging heavy in the air;
The fruits of my love lie wasted,
Rotting away,
Overripe and burdensome,
And I drink deeply from the sweet pools of wine
That gather where the fruits were bruised,
Either by their lesser fall,
Or their greater failure,
Having been inspected by most,
And rejected by all.
Inspired by Mads Langer's 'Lonely Street.'

Marked explicit just in case.

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Inside of me lies
A graveyard of dreams derailed,
Mangled hopes,
Broken homes,
Half finished poems
That no one dares to complete,
And all the while,
While these things lie sleeping
Under their stones,
A flower grows where the children
Don’t dare to go,
But I am skilled in the art of savagery,
So I go down by the graveyard
Every few moons,
Settle down where one day
My bones will find their final rest,
I look at the sky,
And I think –
“How great it must be,
To be alive.”
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Last night’s clothes
Still smell like the ghost of you,
Burnt amber and a hint of allspice,
Just enough to leave me
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Are trees late turning
Autumnal disappointments,
Failing to burn with the colors of fall,
Or are they the victors,
Standing sentinel in their shades of summer
Just a second longer?
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The night was pale and poised on the precipice of perfection;
There was no darkness to speak of,
Just the colors and creations of some wayward artist,
The broad brushstroke of the galaxy
Silhouetted and speckled with distant stars,
Each one a story,
And every one untold.
You can find more of my poetry at
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