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A Poet's Rifle (Free verse) by SupremeDreamer
Blood dribbles from the quill, the feather dyed sepia. A poet's tears dampen the paper as he flaps his wings and sings his soul into the snow of the artic blizzard. His voice lights the way for his mind to fly free. His verses warm the fingers that continue to move despite stiffness, to worship words. He was found dead, wearing a t-shirt that said: "You can take my pen, after you pry it from my cold dead fingers."

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xxx68.164.242.1510June 5, 2005 11:19 AM PDT
Anonymous147.226.179.16810January 20, 2004 1:38 PM PST
Anonymous147.226.170.21910January 20, 2004 8:25 AM PST
<~>64.252.17.33August 24, 2003 7:38 PM PDT
Anonymous209.234.160.480August 23, 2003 8:39 PM PDT



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