Rain turned to ice,and lightning splintered, it splicedthe black sky, it seeped a bright white.All animals they fled,from the sky as it bled,pale death that fell veiling the night.
They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of what the state of poetry is?
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They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of what the state of poetry is?
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