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On the wings of midnight the poet ponders,
amongst hills and trees just over yonder
His purpose he seeks in a world gone mad
What is Truth?
What are Lies?
What is Good?
What is Bad?
A restless spirit he is, his soul destined to roam
and to wander the earth til he finds his own home
Perhaps one dark midnight his own soul he will meet
Perhaps then the poet - the poet will sleep.
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Midnight seeps into my veins,
Fills me with tears and poetic rains...
And soft as snow, your words to me,
In turn I yearn to
Midnight falling through occult lips, that
In wonder exhale with one, cold, breath, so
Dine on my words tonight, my love.
by John Shaggy
On the wings of midnight the poet ponders,
amongst hills and trees just over yonder
His purpose he seeks in a world gone
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Poetry: Midnight
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