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  • Emotional

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    The error of the string is how it weakened
    Weary of the tunes that it had born
    plucked and picked and nimbly roiled
    So it would hum in glee-vibrations
    Until it faltered under, then over, its orderly pitch
    That is how the lovely thing came to me
    Bearing the memory of a lovely hand
    To join in loss my heart's commemoration
    Wound within its wounds, and tucked away
    A fine and sturdy thread, yet practically broken
    Never to be touched by her again.

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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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    quietlypoetic’s Poems (6)

    Title Comments
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    Shall I stand? 0
    Last Act Thief 0
    Continuation I 0
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    The Lover 1
    Wanderloss 0