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prose poetry

in and of itself
there is an hour of peaceful rest
see, from this counterfeit of him
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
noises that strive to tear
desolate and lone
white foam flower, red flame flower
where shall i find you
if i were very sure
have you seen walking through the village
pushing out, struggling vainly
i am old and blind
there was a time in former years
to some the fat gods

 



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