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S t a t i c u s

she falls
backboned and heel bare
alive with light

television blare

her blonde perfect head
the angel mouth

there are wildfires of
storms ringing through
a fresh mind

lightning in her arms
tightening her spine
the thunder realms


gran mals her gram
her ovid pupil
relfecting the worried
of the youthful inflection


Editing stage: 


wisps of air
blow through hardened lungs
whispers of younger days

time rewinds
to fresh
not free

dance upon ignorant air
buoyant immaturity
swaths babes

your poetry is undefinable
I cannot express the quality of genius
thank uou

Good play on the title.

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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Such a powerful play on words. A different take for sure. I really do enjoy your writing!

Keep Writing,

"Quoth said the Raven, NEVERMORE"

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