The Bridge
How’s you define my
poems, anyway?
Had you seen the
clarity of my poems?
Did you read your
selfish way?
Meanwhile, did you
write your own poem?
Like I define your
life as a river
Like I define a smoke
clear as your doubt
As I write, as you
read, thought it was adroit, the poem im under
As to pursue the
finest verse, my poems crooked by my fought
No boundary arounding
our paraphrase, nature between our link.
What I missed, what
you missed?
Merely the row of
words, what is the praise?
What the use of it against
the river?
There’s nothing to confer
to any further, we’re too pride.
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