King's Gardens

In a quiet sylvan glade, amidst beauty, charm, and grace a new poetic force emerges to dance words wanton and chaste I caught him walking alone, On a path in my garden the gentle poet does not reflect me so I scream despair and rip out his throat With blood and tears dripping my hands clenched and gory If I can't write free and creative I must take infamous glory...

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

Sometimes losing is all you can do.
Sometimes all I do is lose, and
even though there are things I wish
I could lose, I can never lose them
Even losing can make you lose
as using lose is losing its use.
Even reading lose is losing
coherency as a word I can use.
It seems all this using of lose
is now losing my muse of losing
the use of my lose

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