Poetry is pure beauty
Wind blows Spring leaves across imagination
it stains flatten cluttered rice that is designed to conceive thought.
I cradle it like a new born, nurturing it, feeding it the ideas which soon show.
Creation begins fragmented, young at heart and emotional
experimental in reason and execution, fathering the gifts he's born to give.
Fantasy becomes security, being the queen to the seeds laid in dreams
agility becomes kin to me and I learn poetry is pure beauty in pride and self-a-steam.
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