Until A Flower Emerges
M
Mark Heathcote
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Poetry is the multiplication
Of brush strokes painted in thought
In rhythm, and-in rhyme spidery spun
Eight eyes on an octave line wrought.
Spinning; leafing-out all over quietly.
Digesting and dissolving internally
Or else they just-hold me, uncontrollably,
Frenetically, silently, dangling almost for fun.
Until a flower, emerges from a landscape drunken.
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