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threads untie themselves from your skin,
and slither ahead,
asking you to follow them
and to accept the unknown
helix pain they weave..
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One could see smoke coming out
of the chimney barely peeping behind the clump of trees. Just a thread of
smoke, white and subject to the wind’..
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within the sweetness of your stillness, flowssuch beauty, layered mute along your gazeas you behold me!...and as silence grows,my soul gets lost withi..
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writing poetry -
on my fingertips
ink drops
of black Muscat must
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[…]Suddenly she felt a slight itch, right there, on her
back. Unable to resist the reflex, she tried to reach that spot, in order to
scratc..
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“We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think.”
Buddha
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you’d think that talking about weather is comfortable,
that it’s a piece of cake
to carry those long british-spiced discussions
debatin..
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for a teacher
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we were making love in a forest of tornados,wind bouncing forth and back on our breathecstaticcolors floating, orphan cumulonimbusborn of our moaningr..
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