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THE TREE OF POETRY

I saw a tree in the mind of a tree,
It’s fruits were countless fruits.
And it’s taste defies all forms of other fruits except the Logos.
It’s colour not to the pattern of today’s skies.
It’s seed neither ancient or classical.
But it’s branches indeed were epic.
The buds was the gravity of intonation heard everywhere,
Whether stressed or unstressed.
The flowers were metaphoric and it’s colour like refined similes.
It’s roots I suspect was laid from heaven.
Behind this tree was a pool of ink of men, who came from the deep forests of machines to fetch with their feathers.
While the sonnet birds sang in their own rhymes.
What a five lettered tree!

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