Is It Poetry
For Any Death, ' Remorse - Poem by Is It Poetry
Your memory and my desire when it comes releases,
limitlessness, you and most futures once an abstract.
Who dies, who lives not the person who dies.
She with death, he her friend both without unLike God,
methods and secrets.
It must be conveyed until denied,
with which of anything, which whom both can say, from whom.
Each freind the foreigner, enemy my freind but my neibor,
their is there, walking naught,
I stand, off from your world and an absence fond the one
anywhichwhere it dies. We take her all of him,
we weave him to as so too color, or pronounce in every uttered web spun silk syllable.
Here, that dragons eye already, there, for the sidewalk,
that desired position of waiting at the courtyard,
from which is never seen.
He can think of what, whether we think at all.
As for us like the thief of coming profits of the night
and many sleepy days when it redistributes all thats left,
you never found until you take my birth.
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