I like poetry. Here are laid to rest my feeble attempts at rivaling Rudyard Kipling, Milton, Keats, and Lord Alfred Tennyson.
Enjoy and critique.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
to hold love
somewhere in the dead of night on a tired open palm a tiny tongue aflame dances in the flickering gaze of eyes 'til the fist clenches and in a silent teardrop it quenches
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