iterations replying to the replica imagined
yawn scatters the insides
of undelivered thought
thrice embalmed in freedom's
generous
offr'ing
"world, i've overcome you, world
i've overcome you,
world, I've overcome
by my song and the blood of a Son."
o dead poets and lovers
sanctioned by gravity's kin
the law of death
you take shape in sound or vision
imagined.
you lie
there on a pillow
or even on a screen,
mister John Keats
quotes as others', words as mine
all within God's reach and cause
hesitant to the beckoning:
settle now settle
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