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Poetry to me is not some Centipede -Not just a little Inconsequential- But rather a place Where I can face
Rhythm and Meter. Rhythm and Meter. Rhythm and Meter. Stressed Syllables (/). Unstressed Syllables (^). A one meter foot line. A two meter foot line.
Before I get as cold as stone,Before I finally die,Before I rest my weary bones,Please sing a lullaby.I've never heard one before;I don't know how they go,But 'fore I leave forevermore
It's hard to gather rosebuds with a dreadful fear of thorns;It's hard to share one's fondness with a fear of lover's scorn.So as one gathers rosebuds with a thick and rugged glove,
I dreamt of clouds in skies of blueWith crimson streaks of light,And all around there was the soundOf laughter and delight.Where worries were a memoryForgotten long ago,
On shining lights in velvet nightsI hung my hopes with silver stringAs whispered words I overheardRebounded in my rotting brain.
“Stir yourself! Awake! Arise! Blissful slumbers, fall away! Cast old Nocturne from your eyes, ‘Tis the brink of glorious Day!” This is what my Mother speaks,