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Some poems come all in a burst,
Flaring in the brain nearly complete,
Nearly perfect.
Should the mind mistrust them,
These gifts, seek the flaw,
probe for holes?
Twist the knife in their bellies
Until they holler uncle,
Change their tune?
Or are they sparrows, breathing
Mysteries that can only fly again
If left untouched?
inspiration | poems | poetry
Posted by William Shunn on April 5, 2012 8:16 AM | Permalink
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