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Poems


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If I could capture this rapture,

In a series of scripts,

That could prescribe enough lies,

For these few scribblings to hit,

A few chords, like a sword,

It pierces the very midst,

Of my body, it’s got me,

In a daze, quite a twist,

 

Grab the lighter for the writer,

Inside me has just slipped,

The pleasure, can’t be measured,

As a leper, it has gripped,

On my being, I am speeding,

To end, like the Titanic,

And so these waves, through the days,

Push me gently to my crypt.

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