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Literature Text
If nothing ever changes,
then courtly love must still exist
Yet no one ever writes a sonnet
of their lover's lower lip.
I'd relinquish any limb
To gain the gift to sketch
But half of your lips, pursed and prim;
Forget the upper and its gracious cleft.
Rather take the lower, fuller.
Pungent with apt words,
Expressions with such vivid colour
They make mine feel absurd.
Cherries, apples, strawberries
Can't describe the shape:
Ever you are contrary;
Nothing in Nature has this nether-lip's grace.
Still can you blame me with such a fruitsalad lip
If on occasion my teeth, to taste, slip?
then courtly love must still exist
Yet no one ever writes a sonnet
of their lover's lower lip.
I'd relinquish any limb
To gain the gift to sketch
But half of your lips, pursed and prim;
Forget the upper and its gracious cleft.
Rather take the lower, fuller.
Pungent with apt words,
Expressions with such vivid colour
They make mine feel absurd.
Cherries, apples, strawberries
Can't describe the shape:
Ever you are contrary;
Nothing in Nature has this nether-lip's grace.
Still can you blame me with such a fruitsalad lip
If on occasion my teeth, to taste, slip?
Literature
on not knowing.
this road was ten miles long.
i traveled barefoot.
Literature
Fugue
I found her in a tree, once.
She was sittin' stuck in the uppermost branches, serene and unsurprised as an angel on Christmas morning. Dappled light inked her pretty with the shadows of leaves, and her fingers faintly tapped the rhythm of a bright hymn on the burdened limb.
"Hello!" she called, miraculously. The sun made a silhouette of her waving arm, and I breathed for the first time in hours. Her face looked so sweet, smilin' and brilliant. Though she was only a few dozen feet up, she looked down at me as though she was ages and miles away.
"Susan, get down from there," I yelled. "Momma's worried," I added in a mutter, my gaze scurr
Literature
Mother Nature's Wrath
The supposed deity, Mother Nature, was always present on the backwater planet. The bitter cold wind, stinging Bosch's face and ruffling his fur, was a constant reminder of her wrath. At least the sun was shining as he trudged through the deep snow.
"Machu's hungry." Shelly, his small human mate, lagged behind him. The snow was knee deep for her, but she struggled through without complaint.
He did not speak her language, but the translator implanted in his ear understood most human words.
"Soon." In the distance, he still saw the human structure they had escaped. He had killed the humans, but now they were in a race against time. Rescue was
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In the midst of another poem I thought of this but it *really* didn't fit. But it made me chuckle(at myself, how pompous is that?) so here it is...
Edit: decided it needed a sonnet to accompany the idea.
Is the romanticism too sickly sweet? And the initial stanza, is the comedy effective?
Edit: decided it needed a sonnet to accompany the idea.
Is the romanticism too sickly sweet? And the initial stanza, is the comedy effective?
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I loved this!