Here.....
Let us live, should we givethe same old show,
where shadows play
we never know.
I paint patch work clouds
in an ebon sky,
descends, ascends, the slave
to passion bends.
As it tells, intends,
were my words an armada,
that fell from the arms of
celestial dragonflies.
The coldest cold and
chillest chilled, I never
willed,
the whippoorwill is now laden!
Bliss to joys be graven!
as all the Heavens waiting,
the ethereal side,
as all shall die.
The hour nigh, this chasm wide, Ferryman,
behold, the highest high,
where all have come in chorus
of those who came before us.
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