A Storm is Coming
I see your iris begin to swirlYour serene oceans
Get lost in the hurricane
But I've never been less scared
Because somehow
I find beauty
In the destruction
A Storm is Coming
I see your iris begin to swirlPoetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
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