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May 7
Any port in a storm, I say,
so take what you can get
Though tough to see the forest'sΒ Β trees
when eyes are dripping wet

The edges, somewhat blurry,
and the forms are vaguely seen
While pilfered ends that whisper kisses
justify the means

For sunshine never looked so good,
as when the sky is gray
And all the warmth will stir the torpid
blood, until it fades

And bliss will quickly flee from this
like sparks from lightning's touch
'Neath hopes that never rose too high
but somehow they were still too much
Written by
Keith Thompson
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