poetry corner 051 – Tureen.

Stigmata; wound, deep.
Waterfalls, I fast.
The company is in the keep.
Tilde, we sleep at last.
— — — —
‘Til deaf, we part.
Permit me one last gift.
Forget the setting; time and date.
Uncovered, we make art.
—  —
The Heavens– at last– could use a lift.
The Earth is on a “learning curve”, between ‘magic’ & ‘beautiful tragedy’.
Lift with your legs, not someone else’s.
Or do not lift; that’s clarity.

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