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suicide poem

this ancient silver bowl of mine
as i lie roofed in, screened in
gone are the three, those sisters rare
i am in love with high far-seeing places
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
i saw god. do you doubt it?
she burst fierce wine
i was a goddess ere the marble found me
the old west, the old time
melancholy, blue it was
in the dark and peace of my final bed
i have heard that a certain princess

 



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