A Poetic Exile - Poem by Mark Heathcote
What is there to berate
Life—form: Why equate
It has not any meaning..?
Every sap that's shelled-out
The husk, longs further, seeding.
'Every breath a waterspout
Leaps into death, pupate.
And is yet, still, dreaming...
Of the wings of perfection',
Too fulfil life's passion.
The gift of love's pre-emption...
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