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Click hereTaku blows, Mistral Expresses, detracting from byss,
bound couchant Cassandra superannuated
in the punctilio of samsara, sooth-repetition:
Hope Departs in February,
Departs as a delusive duenna,
In veneer a soldier’s tear,
February was...
a favourite among Kaatsberg apparitions
to bellow a rann written for a king
who'd die the same day of shame!
Or, lead an alecy stewed head,
one adequated with misery
to murther in moral context
comported as he were, as he were,
still disseminating from Saul’s promulge.
I must say I don't have even the slightest clue as to what is going on here. And I doubt I will be the only one. It seems meaningless and purposeless, like life. But then we die! Feels to me like this poem is already dead. Or maybe I'm just tired. Or maybe I'm just trying to make as much sense as what I am reading. I didn't vote on it though. Comments are more impactful and appreciated than votes.