This is a poem written by me, Grant Clover, a beat poet on rare occasion. Without further ado:
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Black Dress — A Short Story
O free me, free me, the swaying voices puddle to be splashed in the whipping gale. Their eyes wail into the night, lost and lonely, where their arms reach and return and reach and bloom. I listen and wonder what songs would rain if you were to wring the clouds, the sky dripping with music. O free us, free us, I listen.
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