my absent soul

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    my absent soul

     my soul has gone left me behind,
    my soul has left me here to die.
    my soul is floating way above,
    my soul has gone with all my love.
    my soul will watch you,
    and my soul is true.
    my soul has left me,
    and soon you will too

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    Poetry 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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