Like smoke signals sent above
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the pale you is the one I love,
stop and start with each old throw
of the blanket of our home,
burning art, is the only way to go.
Scarred violas catch our eye
a happy sight you can't deny,
struck with love in every voice
the melancholy of the noise,
damaged goods, is the only way to go.
Burning cellos on the wind
light sweet embers let us in,
turning pale into gold
the cuts and bruises that we hold,
ugly love, is the only way to go.
Ask not what you can do to poetry, but what poetry can do to you.