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Poetry is a dying art, Written from the joy or pain of someone’s heart. Death of a mind may come with the death of a poem, The once-beautiful art is now gone and searching for a new home. But...
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The beating of my broken heart, now chained and locked away, I hear much louder, through the night, than words we never say. As hollow kisses turn to dust and fall against my skin, I pray that I...
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How they could.
You repeat it twice?
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on a lovely winter’s mornnot a leaf or twig or thorncould poke up past the icy sheetor through the overlying sleet.so, comfortably we walk barefooton a footprint...