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frail as a vase
your words like a veil
are translucent touchs
bleeding through me
mists on the dream tiles
the heartbeat
black mould grout

embrace me
and I feel loved
like the hot needle
streaking ink
the wings black
that pain exquisite
and beautiful
like the sky run with
torn clouds

mystic air about the
ghosts of our history
our unbecoming
stitched and torn
with wounded pride

gin glass rings
on table tops
fraught with cynic
like raindrops

echo hurt
like ice falling

this dark celebration
this circus obsession

Editing stage: 


It's something of an epiphany for me, because I've been trying to figure out how your writing style seems oddly familiar.
You write like a classic, hippie poet.
And as such an artist might, this has pieces of the profound. I suspect I'll not understand everything you intended because I'm over thirty.
A subtle, groovy poem.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Im forty eight
poetry is an attempt at the profound
I write in riddles at time
its open ended more this way
and in our pablum fed society
with branding and propaganda
its nice to be able to write
something that may make people

thats why I loved the free verse poets
who stretched thoughts and asked
with tellings

its more of a challenge then
irritant I find

thank you

author comment

Like how you opted to spell 'jasmine'. The imagery is almost ethereal in this poem; I love it. With the title jasmine are you referring to the idea that usually people who suffer from stigmata emanate the scent (or the scent of the wounds)? I withdrew that reading but it may be my own bias.

My only revision would be the rhyming couplet in the last stanza, it just totally jarred from from the flow you maintained perfectly until that point.

I really enjoy your work.

jazz as in hyper composition
and never thought of the emanation
but the "wounded pride" business is spot on
and jasmine is such a compelling organic

thank you

author comment
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