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acrostic poem

risen from the dead
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
this ancient silver bowl of mine
my soul is a dark ploughed field
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
i wonder where you live
she must go back, she said
gloom
the meadow was creeping
when i was a boy at college
i heard the wind all day
perhaps it is no matter that you died
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale

 



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