FESTILS OF POETRY
The festils of Poetry are all
in your face, and I can see
them as easily as a made-up
word signifying nothing. Yet,
it appears as if you are along the
shoreline of some great, green
sea and far in the distance a
Ferris Wheel, I think, is rotating
as slowly as time offers back to us
its wayward face - telling us
nothing, leaving us little, and
- yes, that too - making
things up.
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