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Renaissance And Thursday

With a low percentage of the summer's borrowed flaws,
We coursed on the Main, so tamed and sinuous, from the city firth.
I swear to the ceremonies of farewell when a muted bugle signalled
From wetted resonance, the beginning of the drift.
It was somewhere beneath dawn's yawning spree - on the breath of
8 a.m. and a little further.
Thursday waited to puke on me, the vestiges of dreary, gloomy filth.
And I stood sentry on the forked way of depression, expecting grease,
Weed, tangles and fogs of a depraved autumn...
But then, her Leo spoke in jest of the usual tragedy of the fourth day.
NAUTILUS, white and merry, slid quietly...
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Friday, August 16, 2013
Topic(s) of this poem: philosophy
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