Beauty at the trice of every stirring

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Beauty at the trice of every stirring

Amaranth, effulgence whispers the surfeit of thy breadth 
Boughs interplait like anxious stripling 
              bursting alive, lithely mute 
Protea, rolling baubles of visceral kiss on a cheek 
            like a regalia, strewing verisimilitude, in tender unity with death 
Amaranth, effulgence whispers the surfeit of thy breadth 
A comatose amygdala, palms replete of anima, xanthous ore 
              like a love, adulating foliage, in tender unity with death 
Queen Anne’s lace, moist, lucent in animation, metalliferous fancy 
              too entwining, aggressively sibilating in the air to bury in the sand with 
                     embracing, the heart subsiding like a brilliant deluge into it 
                          at every whit motion, slight regression 
Amaranth, effulgence whispers the surfeit of thy breadth 
Boughs interplait like anxious stripling 
                bursting alive, lithely mute 

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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

noonehmm’s Poems (4)

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Beauty at the trice of every stirring 0
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