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For the Book of Love

I MAY be dead tomorrow, uncaressed.
My lips have never touched a woman's, none
Has given me in a look her soul, not one
Has ever held me swooning at her breast.

I have but suffered, for all nature, trees
Whipped by the winds, wan flowers, the ashen sky,
Suffered with all my nerves, minutely, I
Have suffered for my soul's impurities.
And I have spat on love, and, mad with pride,
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COMMENTS
Mick Wiseman 22 July 2018
One of my favorite poets.
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