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Primal Meridian Dry and creased are the lips of the dead, and yet still their words consume me, neural and yet spiritual, their influence is unmeasured, from them I learn, through them I become me, again and again I evolve, a higher self, a better self, an enlightened self. Frail yet blooming are the thoughts of my peers, and yet still their lessons educate, vibrant and lively, their contribution is profound, from them I gain, through them I improve, again and again I resurrect, a kinder self, a gentler self, an everlasting self. Here I stand, between the knowledgeable, and the empirical society, a bridge or meeting place, sophisticated and yet, a primal meridian. |
Additional Notes:
I would like to point out that I see stanzas in poetry like sentences in prose, hence the "incorrect" punctuation. Also, this poem is not meant to be sort of shaky, hence the varied line lengths and lack of syllabic or phonetic flow. I hope I achieved what I set out to do.
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