I suppose poems are meant to be poetic
That ethereal otherworldly universal feel of art
The stardust and spectrums and
That unknown plane where souls swim naked
Everything ephemeral and eternal woven-
Eyelids thin as rose petals with veins showing
Veins gorgeous on flowers and hideous on humans
I can wax philosophical all I want
And there are slivers of truth embedded
But I'd be feigning pretense
And I no longer feel the need to be cryptic
It's the naked souls thing
But maybe I should be at least a tad more floral in my wording
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