Poetry
Shadow drawn in ink and dreams
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The Recycle of Blood
The son is born; he lives his life; His son is born again. The wheel turns softly in the dark,
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For Men About To Propose
He sought to make that nervous plea, But inside he felt so hollow, He then got down upon one knee,
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Let It Bee
He longs to be free from this cell, With eyes just starting to see, Antennae unfurl, small wings uncurl,
