A Lane To Rain If I May
I pursed literature like a death sewer,
Unmask the mass and found a toxic sewer,
And came to what sound like a dad to past of a legion,
Poetry is what I found.
No reason to generation from past like an original,
Found a path that scratch my ankle that reign freedom,
Same page but different scripter,
Like from a scoop from a glass pure precession.
Similar but different as a poet there are similarity,
Place for the present like mink to a line, leave room for era,
Time develop and mind of characters,
How will this show to a figure.
To read to a mean I found a scene,
Look outside of figure a ghost to literature,
Maybe it was all an, a stepping stone hopes and dreams,
A poet and still running…
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Comments about this poem (A Lane To Rain If I May by Louis Borgo )
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