Is it poetry if it doesn’t rhyme
Or has no feeling, costs no time
To absorb, to take in, to turn
A flower only seen in the mind
Do I care, if my mind spins
The colors run under the skin
For me alone, never clear
A brick house made of tin
Words, the ghost external
Forgotten infants at a funeral
For every thought kept inside
Dies forever, life eternal
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Everything has been said before, but since nobody listens we can keep going back to begin all over again.
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