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    the very idiosyncratic personality
    quickly loses what made
    from vanity unto extinction, a brave dying
    words made fiery upon
    lips that should better keep
    those flames of secrets cold.
    from your breath, i hang, i can hang
    the delightful muses merged--
    I can seek dark things
    to console my flustered flesh;--
    make that idea of what you are
    polished shiny grain
    fingerprint upon the skin--
    man of woman enwrought,
    next to gently lulled emerald forests
    decked with webs and dew.

    next to the idiosyncratic,
    a mere verb
    unkindling itself,
    pondering visible
    the surface
    hides these things.

    when light goes out,
    in its myriad parades,
    and the exploding grenade
    from your shouting mouth--
    too much truth for man,
    so that he weeds
    what he is out, and then
    what is left is chaff--
    externals glutted,
    the diminishing return.

    the idiosyncratic personality
    treats as objects
    of delicate feeling
    that parade of light each
    faltering into and unto
    the other.
    afraid of stale air,
    more generally
    the spider-bite of fear
    closes

    the wound best left open.
    Last edited by amenOra; 09-15-2017, 09:20 PM.
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