Tag: spiritual poetry

I, Sheherezade, I

“Function, sweetheart.” A line in code, Bogart, feeling the burnt calamity, The sweat of cities, hearts all pretty. Served with new orders, realizing She flinched dramatically yet faintly, Rudely chortled, then crossed her “i”s. He barely escaped a double, a body, The usual. She’s pretty, toiling for trouble. Yet Who’s the true Scheherazade? Telling, her

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Free Time

I. We visit this carnival bright striped stripped with neon, Inert gasses to breathe and a feast of brothers to feed on. For some think they can earn a place of grace with honey and gold, Bolder still creating truth in lines measured and ribald.  They never find out the punchline to the joke or

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