Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep.
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There's nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem.
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Until the will to speak loses urgency.
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Our animal indecency in print is so blase.
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Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour.
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Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire.
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Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.
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Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole,
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or the way my body barely pricks the sky,
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the same as a century's worth of virgin's blood that's passed through my longing veins,
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scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need.
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Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you can't see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest.
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Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks
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I don't stumble into anything
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so I climb and I carve my initials in the bark with that feather I found but its all so contrived.
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My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage but I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page.
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A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you,
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black waterproof ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure.
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A slowly constructed manifestation of "to tremble",
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as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that I promised you.
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Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk,
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all I've got is this ink smeared lines.
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With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody.
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Crowquill
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Circle Takes The Square |