Wednesday, February 24, 2016

7847. FESTILS OF POETRY

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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