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Click hereI conceal meditations of that subjective tense from myself,
where clues of why your syntax may be indifference to myself.
I fasten onto your way of conjugating my ache until
I become the persuasive phrase you’d gauge innocence in myself.
When I can pen your hair into gold, the lucrative emerges,
but your daunting ease drains silver from the eloquence of my self.
Stretch taut my desire over the copper of your framework’s embrace,
and in esteem’s calligraphy – stained to permanence through my self.
Parchment-ready for prurient brushes with the ink of glances,
I inhale and find in the thesaurus of confidence: my self.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 37,500 poems.
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---it's all been said for me by the others. I'll just say I loved it.
Okay, so read it. Again. Find the rhythm. Read it again. It's worth it. Outstanding. And yes, the point is well made.
I might get trashed for this but... I give this poem a 4 based alone on how it phonetically flows and the arousal it gave my intellect.
For the message of the poem, what was trying to be said...I have no idea. I can sense that there is something truly sincere being communicated, but it is, despite being just a few lines long, too elaborate and tied up in the construction of poerty to reach through to me.