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slam poetry

my true love from her pillow rose
the swan existing
there by the window in the old house
it was a tall young oysterman
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
with lips blood red and heart of stone
but alas, just dreams
the old songs
softly now the light of day
burly, dozing humble-bee
up to her chamber window
who will be naming the wind
into the silent land
sad are they who know not love

 



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