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deepundergroundpoetry.com
The touch of Ferns
If all I really wanted was to try
To find amours as words well up in me;
Would it be difficult - so hard to fly
To express lustful spontaneity?
Sex cannot really be found to be far
From those with clear affection, for without
Fucks are ephemeral: each shooting star
Rushes towards defeat and, then, to rout;
If loving happiness is when your thoughts
And writings harmonise within the mind,
I'll walk those dusky gardens; I have sought
Demanding, fucking passion; all I find
Are ideas, green as new ferns, to resist -
Words that flinch and struggle to exist.
To find amours as words well up in me;
Would it be difficult - so hard to fly
To express lustful spontaneity?
Sex cannot really be found to be far
From those with clear affection, for without
Fucks are ephemeral: each shooting star
Rushes towards defeat and, then, to rout;
If loving happiness is when your thoughts
And writings harmonise within the mind,
I'll walk those dusky gardens; I have sought
Demanding, fucking passion; all I find
Are ideas, green as new ferns, to resist -
Words that flinch and struggle to exist.
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