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Visual Poems
baranalper
, 2021
— on
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The undying cry of the void
The mystery which binds me still—
Like a crimson wound:
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
Someone dreams of a domed bathhouse.
Our flowers are merely—flowers,
My massage therapist said she felt grief
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
they were his way of looking
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
