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Rarely are prophetic words exchanged
With you. Though certainly outside


********

My map, a compass, prophet
Can with little thought beget it's soul
And in a flourish we are open
Channels of espousal, thought

But you. My lips, my arms, my soul
My heart may at a glance explode
Or else in meekness look upon
Perfection. It is not a right

No silver tongue is yours to aim
The workings of a key, too gentle
Within your own persona, id
The eggshell rifts are rarely forms

We, as one, may never speak
The obscure tongues of inner peace
And souls. For it is not your land
My words reverberate in silence
©2008-2009 ~panyd
:iconpanyd:

Author's Comments

Me? Been gone for a while? Why I never!

And no, I still can't do these. Make of it what you will.

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October 23, 2008
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