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Looking For Infinity

The trouble with being dead, perhaps asleep in
my cups, dragging a quill across the parchment.
However, the ink is irrelevant with its shade of
pale butter, dripping from my mind's credenza,
blowing ashes to seal my fate. In search of
infinity, my corpse is predetermined to be a poet
in the Big Dipper's melting pot.    
  
Written by adagio
Published
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