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def poetry

love me at last, or if you will not
melancholy, blue it was
stuff of the moon
with lips blood red and heart of stone
could we but know
to some the fat gods
with the meek, brown eyes
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
weak-winged is song
beautiful
there is a country full of wine
to come so soon to this imagined dark
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
just now

 



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