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The cops knocked on your wooden door
And told you that your man had died
Your parachute lover had gone and lied
To you, he said he'd come back home
So you wouldn't have to be alone.
And you're getting that terrible though yet again
"When will it be over? If not now, when?"
For the Allied army, here's the cost:
Another soldier's life was lost.
Poem DumpDear, I'll be your nightingale,
Sing songs to you for free.
Just send away that blue jay,
And say that you love me.
Fog on the windowsill.
You draw on me with a thumb-pad,
Making what you want.
I'm fading, fading, fading; now
Just a lover's haunt.
The boy deserves the galaxies,
The planets, the sun, and stars.
The fates give him black holes.
Let's wear stripes upon big sweaters,
And soak our hair in bleach.
Nautical is the way to go,
Life is such a beach!
If I wanted life to be hard,
I'd be a diamond.
Here's the man I like the best,
Lets me sleep on his soft chest.
I'd surely find the way to say
The thoughts still in my mind
If my batteries were running
On infinity time.
I could write beautiful music,
Even explore outer space,
But I'd rather be at home in my own
What is it you see in me
That makes you act the way you do?
I'm still not sure, but I know this:
My dear, I love you too.
She recalls being precious
A perfect painted thing.
The queens and king
A RiddleI made the boxes with naught but air,
And an odd little plane that's as thin as the air.
Delicate stars, I make them too.
As fast as I can; for they're long overdue.
And I make the birds that cannot fly.
And yet, I know they'll yearn for sky.
How did I make them?
(oh, if only you knew!)
I tell you something:
Paper's the clue.
NeroI need to go somewhere and be the hero
And then I'll burn out just like Nero
'Cause I won't love or sleep or bleed.
My fiddle and I are all I'll need.
And if my old dame tries to smother
I'll do as he did to his mother
And though I'm not from Antium
I'll soon find myself growing numb
'Cause I don't love or sleep or bleed.
My fiddle and I are all I need.
And when I rule, they all will sing
'Cause everybody wants a king
Who doesn't love or sleep or bleed
And their self and a fiddle is all that they need
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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