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with eloquence in my speech
odes of my aura, I will weave
my words will take flight
stories of suffering, men, and knights
I'll whisper of love and pain,
of beauty and the dismay
my heart will not refrain,
as I'll pour my soul away
each word will add a new layer
I'll be the quiet's conveyor
with ink-stained hands and furrowed brows
I'll put my mind for show
inspired by poet's wit
in their shadows I will sit
YOU ARE READING
Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
