LINGER...

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LINGER...

Linger, like the mysterious shadow trailing behind,
Like a dog following it’s master’s footsteps,
Like an empowering scent, lasting forever.
Linger, like the wintry December air
Like the blazing heat of summer
Like the golden joie de vivre of sunset
Like the stillness of the night.
Linger. Stay behind.
For me.

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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

zatarra’s Poems (2)

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Diminishing Sanity 0
LINGER... 0