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The Weed

Rating: 3.2

I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense

as an explosion. Then it dropped
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
sweetbutaphsyco 10 April 2019

ok, sorry, but this is a really long poem: -)

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