Pedantica

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The voice is hard.
The voice is empty.
A puff of frowsy monotone
sinking straight to the bed;
no spontaneous relations,
nor flippant fixations,
with enchanting executioners or cycles of sea.
Settling softly at the stomach
of a maritime marvel turned sudsy gray.
No ripples, no splashes, to applaud a docile landing
in the depths of a shallow bay.





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