since it may seem that I have never written any good poems just yet... here is what I consider my worst:
to the highest light, of that night,
the smoke was rising.
to the face of that one, insight,
the mist was clinging.
the smoke was rising,
and the mist was clinging,
and the night was made by
a single moment.
the incident was ideal.
ick
and I don't even get the gratitude of you guys tearing that one apart...
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zz
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