Will he not weave a bouquet of sighs
When bitter dark coffee smells plagiarise
Wood fire nostalgia of his tangy verse?
Were it not perchance for this clockwork universe,
Where sighs, smells, verses die all too soon
Would the ocean be haunted by this memory harpoon?
Waltzing fins of monsoon moons evade
fatal stabs of the shiny harpoon blade
But at a touch, my vermilion blood spills
And his ghostly verses arise draped in spine chills
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