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Rated: E · Poetry · Tragedy · #2199769
Spirits for the heart.
What could ever pierce
That which but reflects in rhyme?
What may ever penetrate
Lodestones of adamantine?

Sown in richest consternation.
Grown in darkest isolation.
Ripe with blazing deprivation.
Reaped by coldest calculation.

Purified from expectations.
Aged in casks of tribulations.
Bottled up in imperfections.
Tapped out, lastly, by impatience.

Though it may look cracked and old,
Never will this ribcage sway;
Whatever therein is stowed
Never sees the light of day.
© Copyright 2019 J.J. Netzach (jjnetzach at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2199769