in my
fragility
i often bereft my very breath of life
of all the wonderment left by dreams--
induce myself
into a tragic, tragic beauty
echoing my heart's sheer deservings
immortal tracings of longing
somehow aurify the crevices left in my soul
by all i have ever known simply
to versify their very essence
to the surface of each willing page
i sense far more in only
the most romantic of poets:
days of yore when the Promethean bard
[Shelly] crossed in his own self
the fine line between heaven and earth,
Keats with his melancholic breathlessness still rests
deeply within my heart;
oh, how they remain my unsurpassed favorites
and so, you see
i am but a humble man whose been bred
completely in the pulsating depth
of poetry
may i pertain to this
forevermore.
i often bereft my very breath of life
of all the wonderment left by dreams--
induce myself
into a tragic, tragic beauty
echoing my heart's sheer deservings
immortal tracings of longing
somehow aurify the crevices left in my soul
by all i have ever known simply
to versify their very essence
to the surface of each willing page
i sense far more in only
the most romantic of poets:
days of yore when the Promethean bard
[Shelly] crossed in his own self
the fine line between heaven and earth,
Keats with his melancholic breathlessness still rests
deeply within my heart;
oh, how they remain my unsurpassed favorites
and so, you see
i am but a humble man whose been bred
completely in the pulsating depth
of poetry
may i pertain to this
forevermore.
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