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May 28
And old; it burns

A cold, and how thawing,

Aged down to the ground

Some pelting with furious

Assault wherein snow

Will not melt, where

Trees and their burned-

Like, and sounds and their

Stowed withfor sitting

Here withered; intimately

Burning up, wind still

Hits me. The morning,

Fresh, hell-grasped

See, eyes to the ground

Up, the wood gets old,

And old owes a right

To, in peace, burn alone

Falling, with my eyes, tight
from february 8, 2019
poem from the past a day #9
it's not a very impressive poem, but it's fun to read.
100% the side of my writing that is just word salad and i contended with that after i finished this poem and i decided that it's okay to just put words in weird sequences sometimes.
just put words in weird sequences, that's my secret.
findingkitsunes
Written by
findingkitsunes  26/Michigan
(26/Michigan)   
34
 
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