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The Perfect Poem

Ah, the perfect poem.
Does it occur when you are sufficiently stoned?
Or when the agony begins to bloat?
Or when in cherry blood, joy floats?
Lies eloquently disguise truths.
Truth promenades as lies.
Poetic words speak to the roots that keep us alive.
Should it provoke intricate questions of the soul?
As landmines of resonance fill our holes.
Written by deliabear (Debbie)
Published
Author's Note
The perfect is in the imperfect.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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