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Ugliness Of The Virtual Beauty
i boldly stood on the massive boulder
Watching the small village that lies below
It seemed in the eye of the mystic seer
That time up here, is heavenly too slow
In the foggy streets, nestled houses in clusters
Leave nought to the narrowest peep to breathe
From whence chimneys smoke up very thick layers
Where the living ones, spend a narrow life so brief
With every step uphill the heaven's gates open
To the most jocund views, that earth can show
Those small brooks, rivers and grand mountain
A beauty piece of earth to let the inks flow
The sun, now takes a warm vertical zenith
And the shadows stealthily quit the shades
Effusely soaked in warmth, mother earth is lit
Time to stretch the feet, in the open glades
But,sadly do i mourn the lost life my folks spend
Like sheep, may be more less than dead-living
Whose only source of living is so miserable
That my hungry words can't find them food
Then, how should i recall those idyllic Romances
Those Keats, and Clares and Golden Olden wealth
When my only solace, is a book stolen long ago
From a book store to feed my eager romantic feel
Instead, i find a very hollow pit within, so deep to feed
When food is supposed to fill and refill that need
So dying while eating the words, is then far more
Comforting than real food that need money galore
Watching the small village that lies below
It seemed in the eye of the mystic seer
That time up here, is heavenly too slow
In the foggy streets, nestled houses in clusters
Leave nought to the narrowest peep to breathe
From whence chimneys smoke up very thick layers
Where the living ones, spend a narrow life so brief
With every step uphill the heaven's gates open
To the most jocund views, that earth can show
Those small brooks, rivers and grand mountain
A beauty piece of earth to let the inks flow
The sun, now takes a warm vertical zenith
And the shadows stealthily quit the shades
Effusely soaked in warmth, mother earth is lit
Time to stretch the feet, in the open glades
But,sadly do i mourn the lost life my folks spend
Like sheep, may be more less than dead-living
Whose only source of living is so miserable
That my hungry words can't find them food
Then, how should i recall those idyllic Romances
Those Keats, and Clares and Golden Olden wealth
When my only solace, is a book stolen long ago
From a book store to feed my eager romantic feel
Instead, i find a very hollow pit within, so deep to feed
When food is supposed to fill and refill that need
So dying while eating the words, is then far more
Comforting than real food that need money galore
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