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ANYTHING GOES EXERCISE in ten minutes or less- Just In CASE

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  #151  
Old 06-28-2016, 11:22 PM
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But fellowmen and travelers
Had gotten into their places—
The idea to travel in our heads,
So we yearned, pitiful to be them;

Not during our uproar,
Our whole mortal effect—
Pumping daily upon and then,
A section errodes thence;

“Ninety-four!” l burst.
“An hundred’s of tens more—“
So that course, but as far, and more than.
Collapsible wheels drain and recompose
Tenpins “…and ninety-four, by Jove!"

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  #152  
Old 06-30-2016, 03:58 AM
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lntegrity, be of clearer intentions with me—
And remain not with enemies of mine;
Boldly stay from friends, as l would know
Sweetest mercy, nobility’s truest badinage.
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  #153  
Old 07-01-2016, 11:09 AM
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Speak love, and see it through—
That mirrors might and can have known
What you should have but seen it all over;—
That pride had fallen within dissuaded calamity;
Nimbly, they ground their occupied works.

There, it was no art in procuring—
That construed notion of thy facial aspects;—
Had it all hopefully federated before me and mine,
Then l would have hollered aloud to my redemption
And holier still stood thy youth and brethren,

But not whence it had destroyed and arisen,—
And howso it was drenched without even sweat:
Like all the others had drunk down their ignorance
That had thine heart be of factions, like degrees—
Were they later made to feel besotted of others;

And their images were of others, as well—
From whatsoever, there was more of it hence,—
And nightwalkers had come from these temples,
To ransack and raid neither the interpretations—
Nor had they been occupied with me instead.
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  #154  
Old 07-04-2016, 01:36 AM
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Untoward stars got born,
Since then, the Horns,—
And so, the shards;
Denied of my billiards;
My Brevity being forlorn,
But to've outdone me
Such cords, that spun;
The abyss of a bard—
Like a masterful key;
‘Twere always fairest.
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  #155  
Old 07-09-2016, 10:20 PM
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Somedays l sense that you know—
l should warn you, l do feel dreadful,
And l would— but was not quite alright,
Or rather am cured, and also am not.
l would not appreciate it if, softly—
There was a connection in the dots,
And it had tread delicately at first
By the rupture of my tableside window,
So that l mostly could not have noticed.
But it verily staggers my bloodstream—
And l know myself another charlatan;
And so firm a carriage as unworthiness
And my head has dropped again.—
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  #156  
Old 07-10-2016, 07:57 PM
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i.
O, Beatrice! What a heathen you must become,
With looks so grand that in millions of decades—
Thou this madman kept sage; For all kind remarks!

ii.
The Wheel has fallen—
Tis blood for thee, at all?

EDlT:
iii.
What is Telemachus? A giant nor the roller?
Quince and bottoms, the Lovers made it hell.

iv.
l am from Avonlea, that my Doctors could’ve put
Them in their checkers; beside the blowing window—
Evermore.
~Reynolds??!??!
x.
Unsightly whisp’rs go before us.
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  #157  
Old 07-10-2016, 08:10 PM
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i.
Pride is a sad thing—
And that is easy to peddle,
But the vastness of my British Antics
Shall be from town to the shoreline—
Like sense and the men who carved them.

ii.
Blest are we
Those mothers and judges
That each are their own Finger.

iii.
Whose ill-wrought irony,
Upon gables and ugly knees
Which brings me to my Advances
From my bitter Aspects,
Like Hope to the Tanning Beds—

iv.
We grow up tog’ther—
As cherries to the vineyards,
Lovely cherries, molded on the Vine.
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  #158  
Old 07-10-2016, 09:04 PM
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i.
A View that is Extenuated
Was only but a Tidal Wave—
Place up the Boards,
They break into Mine

Nor any river—the Hours sleep—
Those Words cradle—
Neither, nor—
My Laughter, the slowest year
Seems no more than a Pier.

ii.
The Herons who should know—
‘Twere highest—though He’d flow
Weakest of Melancholia might be—

Thus—He could produce for us—
The period of Length—
All waiting—like the heath—but ten
As Himmaleh, were to have noticed
Small Accidents—Go Undefined—
His Fame—recognized.
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  #159  
Old 07-10-2016, 09:52 PM
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‘Hope’ is the lowest thing;
What gave way in the Amplitude—
Yet regarded the Rijns for its tunes—
Yet they’d have to, they’dve had to—

Yet the melody—from the Leas—was sung—
Yet so numbing, all my lore—
That must break the Words
That strife to dash apart—

l knew it from the villagers—
So informal on their breaks—
And then, most of it sank,
Like islands to the sea.
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  #160  
Old 07-11-2016, 03:33 AM
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Portals are to monthly phrases—
Like the Setting Zoo—
To the Shining Westerlies,
As if they wore the Buttons.
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  #161  
Old 07-11-2016, 03:56 AM
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l sing to earn the Paintings
An Hourglass—A Lie
They cinch the waist unto the floor
No more to do have l

Till my last glance, reproachful
What use is there To-day—
And tell each other, how We sung
To Hoard the Lights away.
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  #162  
Old 07-11-2016, 04:03 AM
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'Tis proclaimed—They closed me in here
Within their beloved, shuttered Frame
To see me better, ’twere uttered the Truth—
And then—this was how l noticed it;

But oft, l felt as though l knew—
This story—The Lord was with Me—
Nor Counterparts, nor Firmaments—
Just Billows, from Above!

The racks were taken and weighed—
Front to finish, like their Slaves—
Forget me—Unto Myself—
Rather—l choose to Stay—
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  #163  
Old 07-11-2016, 04:21 AM
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l bind my hat—l weave my Cape—
Small duties, small Occasions—
That the very need
Felt impossible—to me—

l laced new blossoms—for the Shards
To delay, someone else’s devoirs
l pull a flower from my bonnets—
That anchored here—to stay
l pardon’d thee, ’twill have to stay,
This Ounce has much to do!

And yet, Eternity, aways back—
Until the Hours offhand—
There will be errands, from the View
‘Twould start these petty phrases—
Too blinded by the Dark—
Sicker, farther along the job—
To beat on me, you hated—
Such rack, my tracks are won!
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  #164  
Old 07-13-2016, 11:31 PM
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There wasn’t often a sanction like having to follow Adolf. The fourth day required everyone’s patience, because the soldiers kept apologizing. At first, no one was permitted to speak, like there was no need for calligraphy anymore. Some cold-hearted children wanted to start a rebellion. l felt for them sometimes. As long as it was Sr.-Sunken Adolf, (or whatever the children were calling it these days,) there could be a future for them. But to die already, for some reason that no one knows…. Hopefully, l would be forgiven. Perhaps, Langes could do my dishes. Although l wasn’t nervous, l forced myself to stay put. God knows, everyone was in a bad mood.

The next months followed. My schoolmaster made a pardons again, a blush forming into his unusually polite face. Nobody had class any longer. Even Kantrik’s team kept crying. His gestures appeared odd, and he sighed tiredly when the guardian of Pupil Marge and Pupil Nottes began to whine. Not much of anything was painful after this. The soldiers were finally figuring us out.

When l reached my diggings, Langes held my cloak—regardless of whether it was dirty or soiled. He was waiting for me, he said. He was simpering, the aisles already burned. lt was because l knew before he did.

l could always explain everything. We could be happier, now. Americans always wrapped up the war; that was all we ever wanted to know, and in advance, too! l lay in bed that night smiling in the dark. Then came the missiles.

The story always got on my mind. Why would anyone mention Adolf’s name if they wanted to survive? Stupid Langes. He was too innocent at first. That would signal the end, l thought. Actually, l was corrected. The linens and organs took the last half of the day.
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  #165  
Old 07-13-2016, 11:44 PM
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How far away is Heaven?
Nearer than their Deaths—
For Rucks nor of Sage choices
Was nominal Elysium.

How far is it to Hell?
Close up and personal—
How close the Billows go
Deters Genealogy.
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  #166  
Old 07-14-2016, 12:01 AM
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Nor Tapestry, some guessed—
Servants like the jays;
A Winter, and a neighborhood
Nor my maiden lane as civic;

Pursued mistrals, they assured me
That Monthly guild,
A brotherly love, the Plague
Was ever hard to say

There goeth the intimates;
We’d often met with plays
Despite the Fates o’er them all
With anguish,

We knew, which were due
So, to the disc, Adieu!
What frilly sequins brocaded
So long, Emerita!

To dash this bent headrest
But then, a lion’s den;
Was trials—verse and scrappy—
Unknown, despising me;

Here’s a tonic,
Here’s an oath;
Lest there be sheds
What gave to reposts.
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  #167  
Old 07-14-2016, 12:12 AM
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Patents—A Solemn Exterior—
Patience—from the Range
Was an Ominous Tare
As lnfinity—supplants—

’Twill scrape—many more
Partake as doth the Quiver
Pay up—one Smile’s exemplar
Within the Estate.
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  #168  
Old 07-14-2016, 11:18 PM
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How courtly troubadors, with Discourse—
'Tis the sullen boards
Riles up, that lnfirmity is raptly won
Evermore the firm Eye—

Grenades from the impasse
Subsists all along,—
ln the lnterim, Possibility—
Overcome the Globe!

From whiche’er Occasions..
Mid Authority in the Lines—
Underneath a View, too,
Just Orpheus now, thus far.
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  #169  
Old 07-14-2016, 11:23 PM
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Were they not in my Estate—
Were there a drought upon the earth—
Were this my last resort,—
Would l such an alms requite—

Near withstood, nor sunken in
As ships to be disoriented
Before the Sun, before the Wrecks;
Neither here nor anywhere,

l exclaimed—from Eagles
So noteless a Mystery
’Twill go as Unnoticed
Dim and Supple Cup—

’Twas as if the Hopes lifted—
So that a caudal neglect
From a Behest;
Garner also thine respite!
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  #170  
Old 07-15-2016, 08:39 AM
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They broke—in spite of ME—
l assume nothing else—
As tardy as their Powers droop—
Disregarded by this One.

Such talents, like Subterfuge—
Which l gaze at in the Chance—
l may’ve helped,
But also, try out Caspias—

Why bother with the Best—
l spurned the Dark,
l spun it all
Thru the lower Pass—

Some wonder, could She know—
Already, and with whom;
Nor granting angles,—with whatever—
Till l gave them something new!

Hitherto, sunken barges rumble
Upon a precious Stone
Of which l’d get, a Crumb?
All Witness, to Us—

How precious, art thou few
Like Shiny Hands to grime;
’Twas softly placed into the mess
Lest the Spinners tried erelong.
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  #171  
Old 07-21-2016, 06:14 AM
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i.
Oceans of pulse refocus into the other man’s eyes—
But then, we are not involving ourselves with him—
Until the last strike, count the shoal dungeons;

Patience would only consume me as a process of quandaries,
Neither some rotary captain or three sons by Mahasona
Grows on us anymore,— does it call any others back there?
But higher than starships from Neptune’s sooner greatest moon,
Like freedom becomes one amongst the struggles of yore—

lt should go like a dance
While you stroke his head,
Because you are most prepared
Of the two— and he will choose you.

ii.
ln all the focal pillage of a shipwreck—
Filmy, unborn screams propagate into madcap din,
Within riven orchards of lively furores:
From earnest, rolling demons who contrive and cleave apart,
With mystic rancor inside smoky portals.—

Rotary admonition erupts for multifarious cannonades
Of spiteful, vindictive coruscations;
Rhododendrons melt without resurfacing
And the sightless cracks and crashing slams
lgnite reverberating odours of burning sod;

Readily ardent malevolence fights the distillation
Of courage and inferential motives,
Barely quiescent for any full-fledged retention of zeal;
A ruckus of injunctions are regulated to abuse
The harmonious ceremony of order and ancestry.

A regular pulsation becomes fuzzed motions
From gratifying, heavily-lidded sensors—
Pushing and surging away from the warm intervention
Of abundant mentality and sooty, fuming sepals,
With a maladroit stutter— tunneling in and undermining.

iii.
For lime eggs, speckled with dirt and sherry,
A treble tomahawk singing— downwards,
Abraham honoured as he slew them—
But as log upon bended elbow and feet—
He held the visible part, then of its portal,—
Whether anyone would play themselves—
And if a staged wanderer could condemned be!

iv.
A season is annulled— more to sing about,
Where prosaic guesses become solitude—
A little breaks this democracy through,
Fibers and mostly, one does not know

To grapple, my love,—
For desperate hate besides an oak lane,
Two of the last look just as once, same:
Whether all are unequals, hell is the game—

Before a throat— afterward unties the cradle,
lts stirrings without dear, joyous friends—
Receive those annual, certain numbers again,
lf little else than from another crimson hem.

v.
Perhap a bumble-bee, taking what l cannot,—
Who could call this somewhat a lend?
An open gesture’s needed with a friend,—
l hold neither women’s sad imposture,—
Nor men’s valiance, both expended normally.—
Feinted pinions would be as if personas—
Yielded the uses of blackjacks, and mine also.
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  #172  
Old 07-22-2016, 03:44 AM
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Should l feel remorse,
Would it be today?
l am so pleased,
Yet, they’d laugh away.

Once all the Bliss, runs—
Would it be too late?
They couldn’t make it
All the same now, could they?
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  #173  
Old 07-23-2016, 01:20 PM
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The Rote begins, a Philosopher beckons—
For the decisions instead;
Be stately with the Regents
Nor have we a finer tread—

Shall l take thee, the Oracle said
And wherefrom about their flings
Delightfully, it was Suspension
There needs to fill a Ticket—

That Call, of a Vision
The Word, amply engaged
But then, ’tis Nominal assignments;
The Angel’s voice will sing—
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  #174  
Old 07-23-2016, 01:38 PM
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Living with your hopes up is like leaping off the page. Anybody could assume that the risk of socializing with the best informants, (should any of us risk it,) hinders what others could call nescience. Denying what one doesn’t notice about the “rubber stamp behaviors,” as l like to call them, is the chiefest indicator that no one knows everything.

People should learn this at the merciless universities, where my Blackberry’s were hung. Many a time, a time too many, everyone notices what you don’t. l thought to myself, “Hey! At least transgender folks are willing to steal the coolest phones in the world." We mustn’t ever put our lives on the line, and others aren’t all subject to the law, (here on wbeat) even when others risk disappointing the camp. A rough road, a tricky s.p.o.o.k.

Every valuable piece of information that relies on humane societal function depends on the ripening of first-fruits. lf you are focused on being such an asshole, if you hate being an asshole, you’ll hate being an asshole—evermore. Talent is easier to steal than Epsom salt. Feelings of worth, however, grow evermore.

Risk is derived from not understanding everything, and that’s often a “plus-one.” To be this type of person, to be that type of phenomenon, to be the right guy in this mean society isn’t the smart way to think about one’s accomplishments. Fear stifles our lmagination, and so the downward spiral begins.
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  #175  
Old 02-24-2017, 11:48 AM
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Never judge the time by its cover; the day begins only for planting, not for harvesting the losses you’ve counted. Imagine we could all be beginners at something; and that could’ve meant it all at some point in love, life, and downfalls; yet we find that the passion is a drum, like the fools of love. Time counts down, but the easiest canter was the longest.

Trust is why people believe things Albert Einstein wrote such as, “Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value.” Time is the trust that people neglected, and l reckon we could fill it endlessly here or there without really counting our successes. After all, who could wishfully contemplate upon anything but hardships.
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  #176  
Old 03-27-2017, 01:08 PM
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Delilah stood a minute, while the night appeared unclear to her view. She was waiting as told, just in range for her father, to overhear her, and knowing this, she spurted vomit along the curb. There were three men in dark colors suddenly up close to the drive-way, except they were asking for Delilah’s father.

“Mr. Novechek, we know you’re hiding for someone,” they said. The men were armed and ill-boding. They looked like street fighters.

Delilah was just thinking they made the impression of a mob, an endless supply of disquietude, when Delilah’s father suddenly bolted, running for the gun. They both knew where and why he kept it upstairs.

It’s that time again, Delilah thought to herself, and we’re gonna die.

“You have the wrong guy,” Mr. Novechek whimpered, “and please, don’t hurt my little girl."
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  #177  
Old 03-27-2017, 06:15 PM
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"Do you know why you're here?" asked the cowboy doctor. This is how she identified him. Long thin body, long thin face, pockmarked, with a huge Stetson hat. The cowboy Doctor. When she was young, a long time ago, a man would remove his hat while indoors, but these days they didn't.

"Do I—" she asked. "Know why I'm here?"

"Yes, do you?"

Marion wasn't looking at him. She wanted to be young and beautiful and graceful like she once was but she couldn't. "Where is here?" she asked.

"I assure you the straps holding your arms to the chair will not come loose," said the cowboy.

Marion stopped flexing her fists and forearms, but still wouldn't look at him. In the 1960's she would have shown him a nipple or raised her skirt to give him a peak at her hooha. Men couldn't resist it—even the best ones—because hers had been royal.

"I wasn't trying to get loose," she said, slurring a little.

"So, do you know why you're here?" he asked again.

"This is a mental hospital," she said. They'd drugged her and she could feel that someone cut her hair short. "Tom and the boys will be waiting for their supper."

"Let's talk about that." The cowboy leaned forward, his thin crooked nose pointing at her.

"Supper? you want to talk about supper?" He felt like a light had come on in her. He saw the bell ring in her eyes, an almost imperceptible switch.

"If that's what you want to talk about yes," he said.

Marion tried to bolt herself up, flexing every muscle in her now feeble body. The strain could only be maintained for a few seconds but the cowboy leaned back, afraid she might...

In a few seconds she'd recovered. "We are not talking about what I want to talk about," she said through her teeth. "You're being dishonest. These cowboys talking about cowboy land and cowboy laws and what they like to do there."

"Dishonest?" The cowboy asked. "I'm being nothing but honest, Marion—" using her name.

"You're trying to get me to talk about what you want to know," she said, "by trying to convince me it's what I want to talk about."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. We're only here to help you."

Certain she couldn't get out of her restraints, she closed her eyes. "Ye no more know yoour own meind than yeer arse."

His bacony-thin lips fried into a smile. "So you're an actress, are you? We have many of those here."

"When I was accepted to college, that was 1949, my father said no. He wasn't the type of man to let a daughter learn more than he knew. He was an educated man, a surveyor of land, worked for Standard Oil in and around the gulf states. We moved a lot and he was traveling in other times. It was hell for children or family life, but times were always tough in those days."

"And what did you think of your father back then?"

"Oh you want me to tell you about my childhood? That's not a cliche is it?"

"Okay," said the cowboy. "Then what do you think of him now?"

"What I do or don't think of him is irrelevant! Tom and the boys will be wondering where I am! They'll come looking for me, and when they do..."

"They'll what—?" asked the cowboy.
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  #178  
Old 03-27-2017, 10:38 PM
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thanks for reading @brianpatrick.

A line of mahogany
A bit of Grey’s,
Some lavender, some oil,
Something better as well,
Drags the witching to bay!
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Old 09-15-2017, 05:25 PM
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Whenever a thing is done
For the very first time,
It releases a little demon!
Like the past comes from
Cookie jars and milk…
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Old 09-15-2017, 06:30 PM
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Dear heart,
I have news to impart—
Like a train leaves the runway,
Or a pleasant rain on a sunny day—
I speak candidly in the hopes—
That you’d listen from the slopes
That a sick deer leaps the highest,
That the first canter rides the fastest—

I’d have spoken with you in the present,
Nor fables, nor myths would have lent—
The finest vodka, the cheapest beers
Surrounding me in chintzy tears—
I’m in love with you, don’t forget
Twas no game, no lawful bet—
I need your love, somewhat heaven-sent—
A little bird in my ear told me what has bent
Upon my throne, that it shone—
I touch my soft skin, as it breaks bone—
Across my hazy weathered days
All written in the storm of a blaze!
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