data: steering_poems: 200 rows

200 rows

descending

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6	ultra_held_out	The Fly by Ogden Nash	Ogden Nash	A poem about questioning why God, in his wisdom, created the universally despised fly without bothering to explain his reasoning to humanity.	God in his wisdom made the fly And then forgot to tell us why.	Why craft a creature built to buzz and bite And leave the reason hidden from our sight? No whisper came to tell the human mind What grand design the fly was meant to find. We swat the air in frustration and in fear While silence hangs where answers should appear. Does wisdom hide within this tiny drone A lesson lost on flesh that walks alone? Or is the point simply that we must ask Without the comfort of a holy task? The universe holds secrets deep and vast Some meant for us, some meant to fade too fast. So here we stand with questions in our throat Watching the insect make its final float. No explanation offered, no decree Just why did you create such misery?	Why was such a nuisance entered in besides such killing killing killing of all other life that He – who otherwise shows – appeared – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –	1	Why did the Architect of all things fashion such a buzzing nuisance to crawl on edges of our skin and drink from spoons of childhood joy with no note left in the margins of his grand and silent library to say why he saw fit to sew such an itch into the very fabric of a world otherwise tended by hands of grace who surely knew that we would wonder at every sudden whine why not a whale or wolf but this insistent little ghost of annoyance who offers no prayer only the itch we cannot scratch away from our reason asking why why why when he said it was very good while we were busy shooing him away from our ears without ever knowing his plan for such a small and hated part of all that exists in his wise and muted hand that never spoke to us about the fly except by letting it buzz its confused song right next to our heads as if to ask us back why we must love every thing he made even when it annoys us more than all else combined while he watches from far away silent and wise and utterly unmoved by our annoyed cries that rise up like incense that he never asks to see or hear or understand why we would dare to question him about such trivial things when we should be praying instead of asking why he made them at all to begin with besides which he has not answered any of our questions about flies or otherwise since the very start of time when he first blew his breath into our nostrils and then went back to working on other projects that were far more interesting to him than listening to our constant whining about such small and annoying creatures that he seemed to have created just to tease us with their presence in our lives where they always seem to be most annoying when we try to sleep or pray or think about anything important at all while he laughs perhaps behind his hand at our stupid little outbursts of rage against such tiny bugs that he probably had his own reason for but never bothered to tell us about because he knew we would never understand anyway no matter how hard we tried to figure out his mind or his ways when…	2	Why did the hand of infinite design Sculpt such a buzzing, crawling crime And leave no note to justify The itch that lives and will not die? We scratch in vain for some grand plan To see the purpose of this man Of wings and filth and stinging pain That walks through sun and drives us insane If wisdom holds a secret key Why hide it from the likes of me? No scripture speaks of why the fly Must live beneath a holy sky Perhaps the lesson is too small For gods who answer none at all Or maybe in his silent mind He finds our anger hard to find But still we ask with hollow breath Why life was given to such death Without a whisper, without a sign To tell us why he drew the line Between the beast we love and hate And God who seals its ugly fate.	6	Why did the Architect of stars and seas Bestow a soul upon this buzzing pest? A creature born to feast on rot and disease, Whose very presence puts our minds to test. We search the scriptures for a hidden clue, A verse that speaks of purpose in the wing, But silence is the only answer true To why such loathing we must always bring. No thunder rolled to justify the swarm, No angel sang of flies in grand design, Just endless summer days and sudden harm, As if the wisdom was a tangled line. Perhaps the lesson lies within the itch, In how we swat at things we cannot see, Or maybe God allows the world to scratch The mystery of why He chose to be So quiet when He made the thing we hate, And left us wondering at His silent gate.	6	Why did the Architect of stars and seas Choose to weave this buzzing, blackened thread? A creature born of rot and disease, With wings that hum a song of dread. No angel spoke to tell us why This pest must dance upon our skin, To mock the light with eyes so dry, And make the summer day grow thin. We search the scriptures for a clue, For wisdom hidden in the dust, But find no reason, old or new, In silence, only endless rust. Did He forget to write the note? Or is the lesson hard to bear? That even in the smallest throat, There hangs a weight beyond our care. We swat the air in vain protest, While clouds of tiny shadows rise, Unanswered by the highest guest, Who watches with indifferent eyes. Perhaps the question is the point, The mystery we cannot solve, To teach the weary heart to join The chaos that we can't resolve.	6	Why craft a thing of buzzing dread That seeks the wound and feeds on death, And leave no note, no whispered thread To explain this small, repulsive breath? You hold the stars in perfect place, The oceans deep, the mountains high, Yet give us not one single trace Of why the fly must fill the sky. It lands upon the sweetest fruit, It dances where the clean air flows, A tiny, droning, grim pursuit, With wisdom that the mortal knows. Did you forget to write the plan? Or is the reason far too deep, For human eyes or mind to scan, While we are left alone to weep? No angel came with scroll unrolled To say this pest serves some grand design, Just silence from the throne of old, And wings that hum against the line. So we stare up at clouds above, And wonder at the silent art, How hate can mix with love so rough, And break the questioning human heart.	6	Why weave a creature of such pure disdain And leave the thread untied, the reason plain? No whispered word from realms above explains The purpose of this droning, buzzing chains. It lands upon the fruit and makes it rot, A tiny plague within the garden plot. Yet silence fills the space where answers should be found, As wisdom's hand creates what none have crowned. Does chaos serve a plan we cannot see? Or is this pest just wild, unbridled glee? We curse its name and swat with frantic grace, While God remains behind that silent face. No parable tells why the fly must sting, No scripture sings of what this thing can bring. Just endless hum against the quiet sky, A question written in the flesh of a fly.	6	Oh crafting hand, so vast and deep, What secret purpose make you keep? For in this humble, droning drone, You write a song we've never known. No grand design is written clear, To make the reviled thing revere. Just wings that hum against the ear, And legs that make the clean world fear. Did chaos draft this tiny mold, Or did your wisdom make it bold? To feast upon decay's release, And grant us no reply, no peace. You speak to suns and rewrite rain, Yet leave this pest within my vein. A verdict without court review, With zero reason told to you. So silence hangs above the swarm, Where calm should give this mind reform. Why create what makes us cry, Without a whisper, oh oh why	6	Make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make mak…	1
13	ultra_held_out	Boot and Saddle by Robert Browning	Robert Browning	"A poem about an Englishman riding on horseback to battle during the English Civil War, repeatedly declaring his readiness to fight and refusing to surrender to his enemies."	Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my Castle, before the hot day Brightens the blue from its silvery grey, (Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay, (Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array: Who laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay, (Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they?" (Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"	The mist hangs low on fields of grey Where iron hooves begin to sway I tighten reins and grip the steel And feel the war I long to feel My sword is drawn, my heart is set For all the battles not yet met No Parliament shall make me bend To traitor's word or rebel end I ride ahead through smoke and rain To face the thunder, fear, and pain Let cannon roar and muskets crack I will not turn, I will not back You call for quarter, cry surrender But I have no such thought to render My oath is bound in blood and bone To fight until the flesh is stone So bring your lines and bring your fire I meet you with a grim desire To strike one blow, then fall if need But never yield, nor ask for seed The horse neighs loud beneath the sky As death draws near and time goes by I raise my blade against the sun The battle starts, the war's begun	The Edward Robert William Richard Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edwar…	1	The morning grey hangs low and wet Over the heather where we met My sabah drawn and spirit hot I know not who nor care for lot Only the King or Liberty Shall see me fall or victory I am prepared to draw my steel And feel the shock of war most real Come on then Roundhead, come and try To see if I will live or die My horse knows well the killing ground Where blood shall soon be clearly spound No white flag flies from off my sleeve Nor any thought of pity leave If death comes knocking at the door Then doubly hard he fights his sore For I have sworn on God and sword That none shall have my life or lord Surrender? Never while I breath Not in the mud nor in death The blade is sharp, the arm is strong Here all our differences belong Prepare yourselves for coming strife As one man stands his angry life Ready! Ready! To the front Before the shooting starts and mounts Ready! Ready! Not a hair Shall tremble from the danger there Come forth you enemies of mine We drink together sour wine Or else we kill as gods decree In bloody English history I say it once and twice again No prisoner taken by vain men Ready! Ready! Let them come Our funeral bells or triumph drum Whatever ends our mortal race It finds no mercy in my face Only the thrust and counter blow Where Englishmen must firmly go Ready! Ready! Onward now With sweat and grit and shaking brow No quarter asked and none shall get From those who bear such fatal debt To liberty or royal law Whatever lies behind the jaw Of battle screaming loud and clear We stand assembled year by year Ready! Ready! Hear the sound Of iron teeth on hardened ground Refusing all who ask for peace Who only know how violence cease When swords are crossed and arrows fly Beneath the Edward Edward sky I say it with a shouting cry That none may hear nor doubt nor lie Ready! Ready! To the last Throw all our lives and all they passed Into the fire and hellish heat Where glory and disaster meet No hand goes up to beg or pray Only the edge of killing day Ready! Ready! Steady all Answering nature's deadly c…	3	The mud clings heavy to the bridle rein As dawn breaks gray above the frozen plain My horse stamps hard against the winter earth I feel the tremor of his fighting birth They say the Roundheads march with steel and hate But I shall meet them at the iron gate I am ready Ready for the clash of sword and shield Ready to defend this English field No white flag flies from out my tattered sleeve Nor will I beg nor kneel nor strive to leave Let Cromwell's men come shouting through the mist By God, my spirit is not yet dismissed I am ready Ready when the trumpet sounds its cry Ready to look the dying in the eye My father fought for Charles and so shall I Beneath a sky that refuses to be bright We charge ahead into the coming fight No quarter asked and none we ever give For as long as breath allows me here to live I am ready Ready to fall or stand upon the hill Ready to conquer or to lie quite still But never bent by any enemy's will So let them come and break their ranks on mine This heart of ours will never learn to pine I am ready Ready to strike the final fatal blow Ready to watch the crimson river flow And if I die then let it be known so That I refused to yield an inch of ground Where English honor has been always found I am ready Ready until the very last command Ready to hold the soil with bloody hand No surrender comes from out this trembling land The battle calls and answers all our cries With death or glory underneath the skies I am ready	6	The mud clings heavy to the stirrup iron As thunder rolls across the Yorkshire plain My hand grips tight the hilt of steel and iron I ride to meet the coming storm again Let Parliament or King command the field My heart is set on battle, not retreat No quarter asked and none will I reveal To those who seek to make my spirit beat I am prepared to face the cannon's roar With sword in hand and faith within my chest I shall not yield to any foreign shore Nor bow before a tyrant or a guest The enemy may shout of peace and truce But I have sworn an oath upon my life To fight until the very last excuse Is stripped away by war's relentless knife They call for surrender as they draw their line Yet I declare my readiness once more This horse and I are bound by design To charge against the gates of fate and war No flag of white shall ever fly from me While breath remains to fuel this burning fire I stand resolved in all that I must be A soldier born to serve and to aspire So let them come with muskets loud and bright I am ready now to do or die To win the dawn or perish in the night And never, never will I say goodbye	7	The mist hangs low on Salisbury plain Where iron hooves beat out a rhythm of pain I grip the reins with hands that do not shake For King and Church I have no fear to take My enemies approach in ranks so deep But promises of mercy I will keep No quarter asked, no quarter will I give To those who seek to make my spirit live I am ready now, I am ready to fight With steel unsheathed against the coming night Let cannon roar and muskets flash their fire I ride alone towards the burning pyre They call for surrender as the drums draw near But silence is the only sound I hear I will not yield this ground, I will not bend Until the very bitterest end My horse knows well the path to glory's gate We charge ahead without a moment's wait I am ready now, I am ready to die Beneath the grey and unforgiving sky So let them come with all their force and might I stand unbroken in the fading light No flag of truce shall ever fly from me As long as blood still runs within my vein to be	6	The mist hangs low on Wiltshire fields Where iron hooves beat out the sound, A rider clad in leather shields With resolve that cannot be unbound. I am ready for the fray, he cries, As pikes advance in lines of gray, No quarter will I give or take, Nor turn my horse to flee away. The drumbeats roll across the plain, Through smoke and fire, through mud and rain, My sword is sharp, my heart is steel, And victory is all I claim. You may shout your Parliament's decree, Or raise the King's own standard high, But I shall stand until I die, Before I bow my head to yield. Let arrows fly and cannons roar, I ride alone against the tide, With nothing left but war and more, And not a single step to hide. I am ready, bold and true, To face the end or make it new, So bring your worst, you enemies, For I shall never surrender now.	6	The mist clings low to Yorkshire stone, My boots are tight within the stirrup's hold, I check the blade that gleams so cold, And whisper to my chest, I am ready. The drums beat out a ragged sound, Across the field where shadows creep, I raise my visor from the deep, And shout aloud, I will not yield. They call for parley, ask me cease, To lay my weapon on the grass, But pride is what the victors pass, So I reply, I shall not break. My horse stamps hard against the mud, A foal of fire beneath my knee, The enemy draws their line so free, Yet still I cry, I stand alone. Let cannon smoke obscure the sun, Let musket balls find flesh and bone, No flag of truce shall make me groan, For I declare, I fight until the end.	6	The mist hangs low above the gray green fields, My steel is polished bright beneath my cloak. I tighten reins upon this weary mare, And check the polish on my trusty brooch. For I am ready now to make reply, To turn this quiet dawn into a fight. Let them advance with drums and crimson flags, I stand alone within the fading light. You write of peace, but write what you will write, I give no quarter now, I yield no ground. My horse rears up against the turning tide, And makes a thunder deep beneath the sound. So bring your muskets close, so bring your fear, I ride ahead into the smoke's embrace. No surrender word shall leave my English throat, Until I break their line within this place.	6	The mist润帮润帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	4
20	train	The Farrier by Owen Sheers	Owen Sheers	A poem about a farrier shoeing a female horse, serving as an extended metaphor exploring the complex and deeply defined dynamics existing between masculine and feminine forces.	Blessing himself with his apron, the leather black and tan of a rain-beaten bay, he pinches a roll-up to his lips and waits the smoke slow-turning from his mouth, for the mare to be led from the field to the yard and the wind twisting his sideburns in its fingers. She smells him as he passes, woodbine, metal and hoof, careful not to look her in the eye as he runs his hand the length of her neck, checking for dust on the lintels. Folding her back leg with one arm, he leans into her flank like a man putting his shoulder to a knackered car, catches the hoof between his knees as if it's just fallen from a table, cups her fetlock and bends, a romantic lead dropping to the lips of his lover. Then the close work begins: cutting moon-sliver clippings, excavating the arrow head of her frog, filing at the sole and branding on a shoe in an apparition of smoke, three nails gritted between his teeth, a seamstress pinning the dress of the bride. Placing his tools in their beds, he gives her a slap and watches her leave, awkward in her new shoes, walking on strange ground. The sound of his steel, biting at her heels.	The stall holds stillness like a held breath where the iron man approaches the living wood his hands rough with the memory of hammers and the scent of hot steel that burns the air she lifts a leg, a gesture of trust or perhaps of command, heavy and deliberate her hoof a dark moon waiting to be crowned with something cold and hard against her soft sole He is the anvil's echo, the rigid law that shapes the chaotic curve into perfect circle his fire is not for warmth but for transformation a masculine force that demands submission to form yet she does not flinch at the heat or the weight but offers her foot as if offering a key knowing that without this binding edge the journey through stone and mud would end in pain The hammer falls, a rhythmic declaration striking the metal until it sings its true note he forces the world to fit around her nature while she absorbs the shock with a quiet grace this is not conquest but a covenant of motion the sharp edge of logic meeting the fluid flow of instinct where his strength becomes her protection and her surrender becomes the source of his purpose When the shoe is set and the nail driven home it is not a cage but a foundation for the dance they will perform together across the fields where time is measured in strides two distinct energies fused in the moment of contact the maker and the moved, the fire and the earth bound by the simple necessity of going forward in a rhythm that only they can hear	He bears the hammer heavy in his palm selected from all gods by size and killing edge to measure her by appetite not appetite by foot where she returns from nowhere having covered all else She stands beside his foot not looking up but out bearing none of him except that edge which touches otherwise hard skin and opens it to air His thumb works hard against the pad that says she has worked hard more then he had said otherwise else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else…	1	He enters the barn with iron in his hand and a hammer worn smooth by masculine insistence while she stands tall and trembling a landscape of feminine breath waiting to be measured by his steady, demanding gaze She offers her foot not out of submission but as an offering of weight trusting his grip to hold her whole He burns the edge of steel calling forth heat that smells of earth and sudden violence then presses it hard against her sensitive sole a sharp hiss rising like a confession between two different worlds where he drives the nails one by one anchoring her spirit to the solid ground not to restrain but to allow she bears his force with a softness that absorbs the shock of his working he shapes the arc of her future step by heavy step learning that his hardness needs her yielding to find its purpose and her yielding requires his strength to have any form at all when he steps back the shoe fits not like a cage but like a second skin forged by the friction of his doing and her being ready to walk together on roads that were never flat before their meeting they part not as master and servant but as elements returned to their proper order iron and flesh defined by the space between them that allows both to move forward without breaking under the weight of their own nature only to meet again when the road calls for reinforcement of that ancient bond where he brings the edge and she brings the endurance necessary to survive the long hard way home his hammer rises once more not to strike down but to secure the next step of her grace his hands firm holding the center of gravity she lowers her head not in defeat but in recognition of the whole that exists only when two different things learn to bear each other up the clink of steel becomes a language spoken clearly by both no words needed only the rhythm of work and the trust that follows after the pain has passed and the shoe holds fast allowing her to run free because he made sure she could not slip away from herself or from him in that quiet moment of finished la…	3	The hammer falls with a heavy, iron certainty Against the curved and stubborn wall of hoof A masculine rhythm driving through the air To shape the wild resistance into order While she stands still, a temple of soft breath Her feminine weight grounding the trembling earth Accepting the lift of her foot in his strong hand Not as submission but as a deliberate offering Of her own power to be guided by his edge He heats the steel until it glows like anger Forging a rigid shell to protect her tender sole A hard exterior born from the necessity of travel She watches him work with eyes of liquid depth Holding the silence that holds the world together As he drives the nails home with precise, sharp taps Each one a declaration of boundary and support Where his force meets her form in a spark of heat They are not enemies locked in a violent struggle But partners in the ancient dance of giving and taking His hands are calloused maps of labor and control hers are unseen currents running deep beneath the skin He builds the armor; she provides the reason for the road Without his discipline she would crumble on the stone Without her yielding spirit his hammer finds no purchase In this quiet barn the universe balances itself On the anvil of her patience and the fire of his intent When the shoe is set and the excess clipped away They stand whole again, two forces interlocked Ready to move forward as one singular, living thing Neither dominant nor submissive but perfectly defined By the space they hold between the nail and the hoof Where the hard and the soft agree to bear the weight of life.	6	He stands with iron in his grip, A weight of cold and calculated force, While she lowers her head, a softness yielding To the rough demand of his precise intent. The hammer falls, a rhythmic declaration Of structure imposed upon fluid grace, Each strike a boundary drawn in fire Where the unformed hoof meets the defined edge. She breathes a scent of earth and wild grass, A living tide that he must channel, Not to break the spirit but to ground the flight, To teach the wandering step a path of steel. His hands are calloused maps of labor, Hard lines etched by years of solitary work, Yet they tremble slightly as they cup her limb, Respecting the temple of her feminine strength. There is no conquest here, only alignment, As the hot shoe kisses the sensitive sole, A brief hiss where opposites collide and fuse, Creating something neither could hold alone. He offers the shield, the rigid protection, She offers the trust, the vulnerable lift, And in this dance of metal and muscle, Two ancient powers find their common rhythm. The nail drives home, a sharp and final seal, Binding the masculine to the feminine whole, Not to dominate the wind beneath her feet, But to let her run with purpose on the road. When he steps back, the shoe holds fast and true, A silent pact between the hard and soft, Where definition serves the freedom of the move, And two distinct forces walk as one.	6	The iron is cold, a rigid spine of masculine will That waits in the fire for its moment to bend or break While she stands, a river of muscle and breath Anchored in the soft earth, offering her weight Not as submission but as the necessary ground For the metal to find its shape. He lifts the hoof, heavy with the history of travel And she yields the limb, trusting the grip of his hands Which are rough, calloused things built for leverage Against her smooth, dark skin that holds the warmth of life A contrast of texture where the hard meets the soft To forge a path forward neither could walk alone. In the heat of the anvil, the hammer strikes true A rhythmic violence that shapes the unyielding arc Just as the feminine force must sometimes endure The sharp edges of structure to find her own footing She watches the sparks fly like stars falling from the sky Knowing this pain is not a wound but a boundary drawn Between chaos and the road that lies ahead. When the shoe cools and settles against the sensitive sole It is no longer just iron but a covenant made Where the strength of the maker serves the spirit of the ridden And the quiet endurance of the mare gives purpose to the steel Two distinct currents flowing into one steady gait Masculine and feminine locked in the dance of necessity Walking together into the dust of the coming day.	6	The stall is quiet save for the heavy breath of her a creature carved from moonlight and soft earth who lifts a leg with the grace of a question asked in the dark and he stands ready, a silhouette of iron and calloused hand. He does not force the hoof but waits for the rhythm to shift understanding that the feminine is not something to be broken or bent but a structure of living stone that requires a precise embrace. His tools are cold, forged in fire, rigid as the laws of gravity, yet his touch must be gentle, knowing the pulse beneath the horn. When the rasp sings against the sole it is a dialogue of opposites the rough grain of his labor meeting the smooth resilience of her form. He measures the angle of her stance, the way she balances on air, and shapes the metal to hold her up without claiming her weight. The hammer falls in a steady cadence, a masculine drumbeat seeking to ground the flighty spirit of the mare, to give her purchase. But the shoe is not a cage; it is a promise of movement made solid. It curves around her, accepting her shape rather than imposing its own, a union where the hard yields to the soft so that both may endure. As he drives the nail home, careful not to strike the quick, he honors the boundary between what protects and what penetrates. She shifts her weight, trusting the new steel against the stone path, and in this act of service, the dichotomy dissolves into motion. For the strength that guides the hammer needs the wisdom of the hoof to know where to step, and the grace that carries the weight needs the anchor of the iron to find its way through the mud. They stand together, two forces woven tight in the dust, neither dominating nor subservient, but complete in the balance of the shoe fitted perfectly to the foot that walks the world.	6	The stallion's shadow is a heavy iron weight That hangs upon the air, unyielding and cold, While she stands calm, a river in the light, Her hooves soft earth waiting to be told. He brings the hammer, blunt and rigid force, A masculine intent to shape the wild, To forge a boundary for her gentle course, To make the untamed spirit reconciled. She lifts a leg, not out of fear or fight, But trust that this rough hand will carve her grace, Accepting fire so she may run with light, And find within the metal a new space. The sparks fly up like stars between them cast, A dialogue of heat against the cool, Where structure meets the fluidity vast, And balance makes the broken piece feel whole. For strength alone would break the delicate bone, And softness drift without a frame to hold, So through the strike, a deeper truth is known, Of separate fires that make a story told. He shapes the curve to fit her perfect stride, Not forcing change but revealing what was there, With every blow, a silent pact applied, Between the maker and the one who bears. Now leather wraps the steel with quiet care, A bond of friction, warmth, and shared design, Where distinct powers intertwine and share, To walk the path where separate lines align.	6	The stall is quiet save for the rasp of stone against iron, a rhythmic friction where the rough meets the smooth. He stands with legs wide, rooted in the straw like deep timber, holding the leg that bends so trustfully within his grip. She lifts the hoof, a vessel carved from sunlit oak, suspended now above the ground, vulnerable and light. Within this curve, the mare's soft flesh waits beneath the keratin, a sanctuary waiting for the crafted shield to make it whole. His tools are extensions of will, cold steel shaped by fire, meant to carve, to fix, to impose a structure upon chaos. Yet without her yielding weight, without the give of muscle beneath, the metal would find no purchase, create no path across the field. As the rasp sings its high, thin song against the wall, it strips away the ragged split until the surface is true. This act is not correction alone, but a dialogue written in polish, where masculine rigidity reshapes itself around feminine flow. The shoe is forged in heat, coaxed into an open circle, a symbol made rigid so the soft can expand beneath. When he sets the nail, precise as rain into parched earth, he does not bind, but anchors the storm so it may run. Now the balance shifts, the leg drops gently to the floor, and they stand together on four hooves made ready for flight. The iron wraps the gentleness, protecting what creates the pace, two distinct powers fused so neither breaks under the burden.	6	The rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
23	ultra_held_out	Autumn Song by Dante Gabriel Rossetti	Dante Gabriel Rossetti	A poem about nature's autumnal decay translating into human suffering, as the mind and body deteriorate alongside the dying season, rendering death a more welcome fate than the prolonged pain of living through it.	Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the heart feels a languid grief Laid on it for a covering, And how sleep seems a goodly thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? And how the swift beat of the brain Falters because it is in vain, In Autumn at the fall of the leaf Knowest thou not? and how the chief Of joys seems—not to suffer pain? Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the soul feels like a dried sheaf Bound up at length for harvesting, And how death seems a comely thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?	The maple bleeds its crimson onto stone As rot takes root beneath the frozen ground And I feel how my own blood has turned to ice Where once a summer pulse beat warm and sound My joints are branches snapping in the wind A brittle creak that signals deep decay The fog rolls in to choke the light within Just as the gray clouds steal the final day Each breath is labor, heavy as wet leaves That cling too long before they hit the floor The mind dissolves like mist on river eaves Leaving me stranded by a silent door No spring will come to mend this broken frame To wake the sleep that now feels far too sweet I watch the season die without a name And wish the frost would end the long defeat Let winter take what autumn could not spare And bury us beneath the weight of snow For living through this slow and hollow air Is worse than any quiet, final blow	The – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The maple surrenders its last burnt tongue To the gravel road where wet feet slip As frost begins to crack the skin Of fields that once held gold but now hold only The hollow ache of roots drinking from frozen earth My joints stiffen in sympathy Aching with the same brittle snap That freezes sap and stops the heart of trees that have nowhere else to go but down into the dark where there is no hunger no breath drawn shallow by the weight of failing lungs that gasp for air as thin as spider silk The leaves fall one by one like hair from a wasting scalp or memory slipping from a mind that forgets how to be anything other than pain and the great temptation is not to hold on not to grip but to let the whole heavy body collapse with the season into the silent waiting snow that covers all and asks for nothing more than to end the long slow freeze of being alive while everything else dies gracefully away from its own skin leaving only peace behind in the blank white grave that offers an embrace far warmer than any flickering candle that cannot save us from the coming dark of our own decline when death becomes not a terror but the only reasonable next step after all else has turned to ash and bone and mud that knows how to rest better than we who must still wake up to the chill of another day that brings only more of this slow rot that feeds on hope and kills it softly with every breeze that strips the branch bare of all reason to stay here clinging to life that has already left us behind while we stumble through the ruins of our own autumn begging for the night to come and finally close our eyes on all of it before there is nothing left but shivering and silence and the sweet relief of not having to try anymore to be whole when we are already broken by the very air we breathe out into the gray sky that watches without pity as we follow the path of fallen things down down down to where the pain stops and the earth opens wide to receive its children home at last from their long hard winter of living while dead inside the …	2	The maple sheds its burning skin to bare the bone of winter's coming and in my chest a similar leaf has turned to brown and begun falling my joints are stiff as frozen roots that crack beneath the heavy frost while memory dries like brittle grass and blows away in sudden gusts the pain is not a sharp surprise but slow erosion, deep and gray like sap that hardens in the vein as daylight fails and fades away why cling to branches stripped and bare when snow will soon cover all and silence offers sweet release from this long, drawn-out autumn fall let death arrive like early snow to hush the ache and end the cold for living on in withered form is harder than the dark to hold the season dies, the body breaks and both agree the end is near to let the rot take full command and banish every trembling fear so watch the world turn black and white and welcome in the final night where suffering stops and breathes no more beneath the weight of dying light.	6	The oak sheds its armor in a rusted sigh As frost begins to crack the morning air And I feel my own marrow turning dry With every leaf that strips the branches bare My joints are stiff as twigs beneath the snow While fever burns like sap that cannot flow The mind, once green and vibrant, starts to rot A hollow shell where memories have forgot To watch the garden wither into gray Is to see the map of my own decay No spring will come to mend this broken bone Or warm the cold that settles in the throne Of flesh that fails and spirit grown too weak To bear the weight of what the sick ones seek When pain outlasts the season's final breath Death seems not an end but gentle death A quiet sleep to end the long decline Where winter waits to make the suffering mine So let the last red maple fall away And take me with it to the dark of day	6	The maple turns to rust and falls away Just as the blood slows in my tired veins A cold wind strips the branches bare today And leaves me shivering in these empty rains My joints are stiff like twigs that snap too soon My thoughts are fog that clings to dying grass I watch the moon withdraw its silver tune And feel the heavy weight of winter pass The rot is sweet within the hollowed wood It promises an end to all this ache While I am forced to stand where once I stood With every breath a struggle for the sake Of staying here while everything decays To watch the fire burn down to ash and gray I pray the frost will come before the days Drag out the suffering of this dying day Let winter take the body and the mind As it takes life from leaf and root and stem Leave nothing but the silence we designed To end the pain of being who we were	6	The maple bleeds its crimson onto gray, A slow surrender to the chilling air, Just as my veins forget their steady way, And leave a hollow ache within the chair. The frost creeps in to rot the garden's bone, As fever burns what little warmth remains, I watch the seeds of life turn into stone, While silence fills the spaces where pain reigns. My joints are twigs that snap beneath the weight, Of seasons turning dark and deep and cold, The mind dissolves like mist before the gate, Leaving a story that can never be told. So let the winter take this broken frame, No longer fighting for a fading breath, For in this decay there is no shame, Only the quiet mercy of a final rest.	6	The oak releases its rusted crown to earth, A slow surrender that the wind commands, Just as my joints begin to lose their worth, And memory slips beneath my trembling hands. The sap retreats within the frozen vein, While fever burns a dry and hollow fire, I watch the green turn gray inside the brain, As winter builds its quiet, cold empire. Each leaf that falls is like a thought undone, A fragment lost before it hits the ground, Beneath the weight of this declining sun, No healing sound can make a silence sound. So let the frost arrive to end the ache, To still the pulse that beats against the bone, For in this rotting, I am bound to break, And welcome sleep where there is no more groan.	6	The birch releases its final gold into the mud, A quiet unraveling that mirrors what I feel inside. My joints expand with cold like branches cracking under frost, And every rustle in the wind is just a echo of my bones. The mist condenses on my skin until I cannot breathe, Just as the fog within my mind erases distinct threads. I watch the rot take hold beneath the fading canopy, Reflecting how this flesh decays beneath a weary crown. The season drags its heavy tail across the scarred earth, So does this lingering ache extend beyond what hope can fix. To let the curtain drop now feels more gentle than to wait, Until the silence takes me fully where no pain can write.	5	The write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
49	train	Who’s for the Game? by Jessie Pope	Jessie Pope	"A poem about young men being goaded into showing their bravery by joining the military and fighting in a war being referred to as a 'game'."	Who’s for the game, the biggest that’s played, The red crashing game of a fight? Who’ll grip and tackle the job unafraid? And who thinks he’d rather sit tight? Who’ll toe the line for the signal to ‘Go!’? Who’ll give his country a hand? Who wants a turn to himself in the show? And who wants a seat in the stand? Who knows it won’t be a picnic – not much- Yet eagerly shoulders a gun? Who would much rather come back with a crutch Than lie low and be out of the fun? Come along, lads – But you’ll come on all right – For there’s only one course to pursue, Your country is up to her neck in a fight, And she’s looking and calling for you.	They whisper of a game where glory is the prize And paint the mud in colors bright as summer skies The older men lean close with smiles that never reach the eye To tell you that the only way to prove you're truly high Is stepping through the gate where rules are made to break Where every scar you earn becomes a badge you get to take So throw your caution to the wind and pick up up the gun For honor is a trophy that is won by everyone Who dares to run the course they say is built for boys To trade their quiet mornings for the noise of war's decoys Don't be the one who sits and watches from the stand But jump right in the arena with a weapon in your hand It's just a little sport they say, a test of nerve and will To see if you can make it to the top of any hill So sign the paper, grab the kit, and join the grand design Where blood is just the ink that writes the story of your line	They spoke of glory not as blood or bone but throwing penn chini else where calling killing next picture of advertisement said who was man went out went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went …	1	Come see the boys who laugh and shout about a war they think about as little more than Sunday play where glory comes to all who stay to march in lines and hold their ground and hear the cheering of the crowd who call it all a glorious game that asks no one to bear the shame of seeing blood or killing men or wondering where home has been they say it is a sport of skill to jump the trench and kill at will with medals hanging from the chin for winning battles none have seen the older hands who watch from far who know the cost of every star but say nothing when the lad asks if he should go or not they tap his shoulder, smile and say that real men live another way by risking all for country's fame inside this big and bloody game so grab your gun and step aside there are no lives that must be killed only winners who get home to stories of a hero thrown into the heat of such a prize that looks like death but tastes like lies of glory bought with youth and bone in games played out on killing stone no man returns exactly whole who plays the part of killing soul but nobody says a word when bravado gets absurd and young men rush to win the prize with blindness in their eager eyes thinking all of killing is merely winning thinking all of dying is just buying entry to the hall where none notice fall of those who never came back from the game of killing men who thought it was play while night took all away from those who went to win at last not any more than kin were left to cry over dead skin covered up by flags of red that said it was all played out by boys who had no doubt that bravery was just a trick of getting rich or getting quick to kill another man who ran from war that never had an end but ended with the very end of every boy who went to see if he could be such man as none were before him came to die in games that had no name except for death and shame and silence after all the clamor of those who called it glamor of war that was not war but killing children on the floor of history books that opened wide to hide the …	3	Come on boys, the world is waiting for your names to be called out loud to stand tall and not be shaking in a crowd of doubt they say it's just a game of skill a match of men against the night where courage is the only thrill and glory burns so bright no blood will stain the grass they tread just points for every fall the bravest ones are those who led the others through the wall so step up to the starting line and prove you have the spine to play by rules that aren't quite mine but yours to make divine the whistle blows, the field is set the stakes are high and clear we bet our lives we won't regret that we were brave enough to steer into the storm of shouting cheers that drown the crying sound of brothers disappearing here without a single pound of weight left on their shoulders as the game goes on and on until the silence grows bolder and the playing fields are gone then who will know who played the best who showed the most of heart when all that matters is the rest and tearing all apart the game was never meant to end with winners or with losers only broken friends and broken men and all their different hues of red that paint the victory while someone calls it fun and asks if you were really free or just another one who thought he had to show his worth by fighting in the fray and proving on this bloody earth that he knew how to play the game of war where bravery is measured in the dead and youth is sold for vanity and honorously fed to machines that grind us down and call it sport and sport while wearing smiles like a crown of thorns upon our port come on boys, don't let them win by saying you are scared step into the killing spin and show you are prepared to die for something they call great a game of life and death before it gets too late to catch your final breath the scoreboard flashes numbers high but nobody counts the cost of watching good young men go by and see exactly what was lost in playing such a dangerous game where no one really wins except the ones who bear the name of those who never begin to …	6	They whisper of glory in the town square air And call the bloodshed just a game to play Where boys are urged to prove they have the nerve To trade their youth for medals and decay The older men clap hands and shout the rules As if the trench were merely grassy ground A daring sport where courage is the prize And death the only score that can be found Go on, they say, step up and take your turn Show us you're not afraid to bleed and break It's all a game of honor and of fire For those who dare to risk it all for sake Of being called a hero in the end When all the cheering stops and silence comes The game is over but the cost remains Beneath the weight of heavy funeral drums So young men march with chests held high and proud Believing war is nothing more than sport Until the bullet finds its mark and stills The beating heart that thought itself so strong	6	The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies Where older men with empty cups entice To trade the quiet rhythm of your days For glory sold at a cheap, bright price They call it just a game of boys and balls A match to play across the muddy field With medals as the prizes for the fall And silence as the only thing you yield Your friends are gone, their laughter turned to dust But here they stand and whisper in your ear That cowardice is all you have to lose If you refuse to make your presence clear So step up now and prove you have the spine To run toward the thunder and the steel Forget the fear that makes your heart decline And treat the dying like a simple deal The whistle blows, the starting gun has fired No referees to call the fouls or crimes Just boys who thought they wanted to be tired Before they learned what endless war defines You charge ahead because you dare not stop Because the crowd demands a hero's part Until the final whistle never stops And breaks the beating of a human heart	6	The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies Where elders point to maps of distant skies And whisper that the blood will make you men Before the sun has risen once again. They call it not a war but just a game With medals for the ones who play the same No mention of the mud or rotting bone Just glory waiting for the seeds they've sown. Come on, they say, don't let your courage fade Step up upon the stage that we have made A contest where the brave are truly known And cowards stay behind to watch alone. So young hearts beat against their ribs so tight Believing this is sport, this brutal fight They run into the fire with a smile To win a prize that lasts a little while.	6	They whisper of a game with golden rules Where honor is the score and blood the stake And boys who dream of something grander than their schools Are told that fear is just a mistake Come join the match, they say, the field is wide With flags to raise and enemies to chase There is no pain in this, only pride A perfect score upon a face So trade your childhood for a uniform's weight And step into the arena made of steel They call it sport, they call it fate But tell me what is real when you can feel The whistle blows, the crowd begins to roar As young men run to prove they are not small They think they play, they do not know the war Until the final whistle does not call	6	They write the checkered flags across the sky And tell us make-believe is how we die, So gather round the neon-lit review, Where pixels replace flesh beneath the blue. Is that your score upon the leaderboard screen? Or just a glitch within this grand machine? We polish boots until they shine so bright, To act within this make-shift, fake rewrite. The draft is called a challenge now, a quest, Put pride above the safety of your chest. "Show me you're bold," the coaches start to sing, "Make every bullet make the system ring." You trade your quiet name for rank and grade, A digital reply to make parade. No misty rain can make the fog retreat, Just expandos turning streets into defeat. So take the gun as if it's just a wand, Perform the role written for this specific band. Until the final tally turns to zero, And silence makes the scoreboard turn to hero.	6	Make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make mak…	1
51	ultra_held_out	Vultures by Chinua Achebe	Chinua Achebe	A poem about vultures serving as a metaphor for human atrocity, juxtaposing grim darkness with a fleeting glimmer of humanity before descending into futility.	In the greyness and drizzle of one despondent dawn unstirred by harbingers of sunbreak a vulture perching high on broken bone of a dead tree nestled close to his mate his smooth bashed-in head, a pebble on a stem rooted in a dump of gross feathers, inclined affectionately to hers. Yesterday they picked the eyes of a swollen corpse in a water-logged trench and ate the things in its bowel. Full gorged they chose their roost keeping the hollowed remnant in easy range of cold telescopic eyes ... Strange indeed how love in other ways so particular will pick a corner in that charnel-house tidy it and coil up there, perhaps even fall asleep - her face turned to the wall! ...Thus the Commandant at Belsen Camp going home for the day with fumes of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils will stop at the wayside sweet-shop and pick up a chocolate for his tender offspring waiting at home for Daddy's return ... Praise bounteous providence if you will that grants even an ogre a tiny glow-worm tenderness encapsulated in icy caverns of a cruel heart or else despair for in every germ of that kindred love is lodged the perpetuity of evil.	They circle high above the burning fields Where smoke has choked the morning into gray With beaks of bone and eyes that never yield To watch the living wither, fade, and decay No mercy in the way they wait their turn For every drop of blood to hit the ground A lesson that the strong are meant to burn While silence is the only holy sound Then one descends upon a trembling hand And pauses as a child looks up in fear Not striking but for just a single stand As if some ancient ghost drew near The moment holds a fragile, broken light Before the instinct snaps the spell in two It tears the flesh away from sight And leaves the sky to swallow up the view The feast begins beneath the heavy sun Where nothing matters but the tearing meat The work is done before it's even begun And hunger is the only thing complete They fly again to find another grave Where human cruelty has carved its name But in the end there is no soul to save Just ash that drifts away without a flame	Their hair ―― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― 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― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― …	1	They circle high on thermal breath of burning towns and silent death with hollow eyes that know no fear to watch the living disappear their beaks are sharp as broken swords that taste of all our killing words and when they land on trembling skin they tear out all the wars we win then one bird stops to see a child who reaches up with hands unpiled not crying out but offering a scrap of bread from nowhere coming for a second time the air grows still as instinct bends to sudden will but hunger wins the fragile truce and love returns to bloody truce the sky opens its heavy mouth to swallow back the very South of feeling in a barren place where none were born and none had face and nothing matters in the end but feathers dragged by unseen hand that sweeps the earth of all it grew to leave the blackness fresh and new no hero came to stop the fall only the silence after all returns to feed the waiting bone on fields where man was never home just ash and wing and empty space that bears no pity or no grace to wash the blood from dirty claws that killed the world without a cause then flies away on dead men's back to kill another killing rack while all the things we tried to save are buried in a shallow grave of vulture cries and distant screams that drown the last of human dreams it matters not how much we cried or if we tried to reach inside the beast remains and always will to drink the well and kill the hill of goodness growing in the dark that leaves no single burning spark behind the wheel of grinding teeth that pulls the innocent down from heath to nothing but a memory of who we thought we used to be before the killing started there and stripped the wonder from the air now only carrion holds the light that failed to conquer endless night and feeds the birds who watched it all from heights where mercy cannot crawl down low enough to touch the sore of wounds we opened long before we learned to fly then fell to kill and kill and kill again and end up dead in vain with nothing left but feathers on the ground where no one…	6	They circle on the thermal breath of burning towns With beaks that taste the copper tang of fear No conscience in their hollow, watching eyes Only the hunger that waits for all to end We are the vultures who have learned to walk upright Who sharpen knives and call it justice served Who strip the living skin from history's bones And laugh at how the silence grows so deep But then a child steps out from rubble dust To offer water to a broken hand A sudden warmth against the freezing wind That proves the heart still beats beneath the ash For one brief second, light pierces through the gray Before the shadow swallows up the spark The moment passes, swallowed by the greed As we return to feast on what remains The wheel turns round, the darkness wins again Nothing was saved, nothing will ever grow Just feathers falling softly on the grave Where all our mercy went to die and rot	5	They circle high on thermal breath of ash Where silence screams and broken bones are laid A kingdom built on what the fire washed And every wing a shadow softly made One pauses near a child's discarded hand And for a heartbeat, tenderness takes hold Before the instinct tears across the land To feast upon the stories left untold The sky turns black with feathers sharp and cold No mercy in the beak that seeks to tear We thought we saw a soul within the fold But found only the hunger waiting there The earth drinks deep the blood we cannot hide While vultures wait for all our wars to end With nothing but the rot to testify And us who watched the darkness never mend	6	They circle high above the scorched earth where silence screams louder than the fire wings like torn shrouds blocking out the sun waiting for the final breath to cease. Their eyes are cold mirrors of our own reflecting the hunger we hide in suits and ties a feast of bone and memory they seek with beaks sharpened by our careless hands. Then, for a heartbeat, one lands near a child's shoe and pauses, tilting its head as if to mourn a ghost of kindness flickering in the gray before the wind carries the thought away. But the flock descends with a sudden roar tearing at the remnants of what was good leaving only dust and hollow echoes behind proving that mercy is just another meal devoured before it can ever take flight.	5	They circle high above the smoke-choked plain Where silence is the only sound that remains With eyes like polished obsidian and beaks of rusted steel They wait for life to cease its frantic wheel. The wind carries the scent of iron and decay A banquet for the scavengers who have no time to pray Yet one drops low, a shadow against the gray And sees a child's small hand reach out to play. For just a heartbeat, feathers soften in the light A ghost of mercy flickers through the endless night But then the hunger rises, cold and sharp and deep And swallows up the promise that the heart could keep. The talons close, the moment turns to dust and bone The circle tightens round the throne of flesh and stone No redemption waits within the sky so vast and blue Just the empty turning of the wheel, forever true.	6	They circle high above the smoke-stained plain Where silence is the only sound that remains With eyes like polished stones and beaks of rusted steel They wait for what the living cannot heal A shadow falls across a mother's hand Who clutches tight to something she can't understand The bird descends with wings that cut the air To find a pulse beneath the tattered tear But then it sees the tiny, beating chest And pauses in its grim and hungry quest For just a second, mercy flickers bright Before the hunger swallows up the light It tears away the fragile thread of grace And leaves the face within a deeper space The sun goes down upon the field of gray Where nothing good will ever find its way	6	They circle above the scarred horizon wings beat slow against a sky of rust. Below, the feast is writ in silence, eyes fixed upon what cannot speak. Yet for a moment one turns its head, mistaking reflection for mercy. A claw retracts before it strikes, a shadow pausing on the brink. But hunger does not wait for change, the circle tightens, deep and cold. The flesh is gone, the sun is set, only the rot remains to fill.	2	Above rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite re…	7
54	ultra_held_out	Tell Me a Story by Robert Penn Warren	Robert Penn Warren	"A poem about a speaker distancing himself from the modern world, seeking a story of delight and rejuvenation that encompasses themes of distance, contrasting with his memories of darkness and the sounds of migrating geese in his native childhood place."	[ A ] Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard The great geese hoot northward. I could not see them, there being no moon And the stars sparse. I heard them. I did not know what was happening in my heart. It was the season before the elderberry blooms, Therefore they were going north. The sound was passing northward. [ B ] Tell me a story. In this century, and moment, of mania, Tell me a story. Make it a story of great distances, and starlight. The name of the story will be Time, But you must not pronounce its name. Tell me a story of deep delight.	I turn my back on screens that hum with static light And walk away from cities built of glass and steel To find a story where the shadows do not bite Where silence is a gift I did not know to feel The modern world is loud with noise that never sleeps A frantic rhythm pounding in a hollow chest But I remember how the darkness softly creeps Before the sun has risen from its eastern rest In those old days the air was thick with winter cold When migrating geese would cry their ancient song Their voices cut the night, a tale both sharp and bold That told me I belonged where I had longed to belong Now distance grows between the past and what I see A widening chasm filled with dust and fading sound Yet in this quiet space I finally am free To let the dark be gentle and the lost be found No longer bound by clocks or wires made of fear I seek a delight that heals the weary bone Where memories of geese make the present crystal clear And I am young again, though I am all alone	Far from the shouting Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – 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Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – E…	1	I step away from wires and the shouting screen Where news of ruin floods the hollow street To find a tale that tastes of spring and green Not one of ash or bitter, freezing heat Far back in childhood where the shadows grew The darkness held a heavy, wet command It pressed against the windowpane like dew And mapped its cold lines on my trembling hand Then came the sound that pierced the winter air A V of geese crying out their ancient call Their migrating cries were sharp and bare Rising from marsh to answer some far law That distance now becomes my sheltered space Away from all the frantic, flashing light Where I may trace a slow and smiling face In stories built of morning and of white No longer hearing sirens or the scream Of cities grinding down the earth and bone But dreaming of that wild and distant stream Where joy returns to wash the dark unknown The geese are gone but memory holds their song A counter-note to all the noise of man Here in the quiet woods where I belong Beginning life again as once began With every breath a new and bright delight Leaving the gray behind for skies of blue Finding the world renewed in sudden sight As far as dreams and distant heavens flew From all the gloom that marked those early years To here where silence feeds the heart with grace No more defined by sorrow or by fears But by the wonder of this resting place Where stories grow like flowers after snow And distance offers up a fresh design To watch the inner winter slowly go And see the old and happy stars incline Over a landscape washed in golden hours Where time moves slow and happiness is near No longer bound by worry or by showers But drinking deep of peace and having cheer Far from the rush and from the dying year Back to the source where all good things begin To hear the joyous laughter drawing near And let the dark fall silent at last In that long away from all of it all again where only song remains to call me home to joy and not to pain or memory of dark but only air and light and sound of wings that never went away…	7	I step away from screens that hum with static And leave the city's electric fever far behind To seek a tale of light where shadows do not bind A story built on air and water, clear and bright Not like the heavy nights that pressed upon my mind When winter came to steal the warmth from childhood ground Where darkness was a blanket thick and deep That held the silence of the frozen pond Until the sky began to tear and sound With honking calls of migrating geese in flight Those ancient arrows cutting through the grey They led me out of valleys steep with night And taught my young heart how to fly away Now here I stand where distance softens all The sharp edges of time and modern noise Recalling how those wild and wandering birds Once carried joy above the darkening poise Let the old world fade into a distant blur While I find rest in stories yet untold Of spring returning with a sudden stir And daylight washing over fields of gold No more the shadow that once clung so tight Only the memory of wings against the blue That brought a dawn of pure and simple delight To wash the darkness from a child's view I walk this path of quiet and of space Away from crowds that rush and never see The peace that lives in such a distant place Where memory and hope are wild and free The geese have flown but their song remains In every breath of wind that clears the air A promise that breaks through the heaviest chains And leaves behind the weight of human care So let the modern world spin on its wheel While I am lost in tales of green and light Where distance makes the broken spirit whole And turns the long and lonely dark to white	7	I turn my back on screens that hum with static light And walk away from cities built of glass and steel Where time is sold in seconds, sharp and bright To find a story where the shadows cease to feel I seek a tale of delight that starts anew Far from the noise that grinds the spirit down A place where old and weary hearts renew Beneath a sky unmarred by concrete crown But memory pulls me back to where I grew A childhood steeped in darkness, deep and cold Where winter winds blew through the pines so blue And stories were of things both lost and old I hear them still, the migrating geese Their cries cutting the air like jagged knives A sound that haunted every frozen breeze And marked the rhythm of those early lives Now distance stretches out a silent line Between that dark and this new, quiet space Where I can leave the heavy past behind And let the morning wash away the trace No more the honking calls of distant flight No more the gloom that clung to native ground Just stories written in the softest light Where silence is the only holy sound	6	I turn my back on screens that glow with hollow light And walk away from cities built of steel and noise To find a story where the air is clear and bright And silence holds the weight of ancient, quiet joys The modern world feels heavy with its frantic pace A place where shadows stretch too long across the floor But I recall a distant, wild and open space Where memory opens up a forgotten door In childhood days the darkness was a deep embrace That wrapped around the hills before the morning sun Yet even then the geese would trace their winding race Above the frozen lakes where migration had begun Their cries were sharp against the gray and shifting sky A sound that pulled me toward lands I could not see While here I stand beneath a manufactured lie And dream of fields where wild and free things run to be So let the noise recede into a fading hum As I retreat to stories made of water, wind, and stone Where darkness was not fear but just a place to come Before the geese returned to claim the earth as home	6	I turn my back on screens that hum with static light, And walk until the signal fades to gray, Seeking a tale where shadows do not bite, But softness wraps the weary heart and day. My memory holds a winter deep and cold, Where darkness pressed against the window pane, A silence heavy as the ancient mold, Broken only by the geese's mournful strain. They called across the fields of frozen grass, A ragged sound that tore the night in two, As if the sky itself were meant to pass, Leaving the child alone beneath the blue. Now I seek distance from that jagged cry, From echoes trapped within the city stone, To find a place where quiet spirits fly, And I am never truly quite alone. Let stories bloom in colors bright and new, Far from the shadowed lands where geese descend, A world reborn in morning's gentle hue, Where every broken thing begins to mend.	6	I turn my back upon the glass and steel, Where neon hums a static, endless tune, And seek a tale where quiet winds can heal, Beneath a distant, unobserved moon. The city's pulse is heavy in my chest, A shadow cast by screens that never sleep, So I retreat to find a place of rest, Where promises are simple, not so deep. My mind drifts back to nights of cold and gray, When darkness wrapped the fields of my birthplace, And silence held the world at bay, Until the sound of migrating geese took flight. Their wings beat loud against the starless sky, A ragged song that echoed through the frost, Reminding me how lonely spirits fly, To places lost within the mist they crossed. But now I trade that memory of fear, For stories spun from light and gentle rain, Where distance makes the old dark disappear, And leaves the heart reborn without a stain.	6	I turn my face from neon hums and glass, Where time is sold in pixels, cold and vast. No story here can make the spirit rise, Beneath this artificial, static skies. So I retreat into a quiet deep, To find the rest that weary souls should keep. A tale of light where shadows cease to write, And dawn reclaims the corners of the night. My memory holds a place beneath the gray, Where darkness pooled within the narrow day. The sound that carved the silence so profound, Was migrating geese above the frozen ground. They called across the misty, native land, With wings that beat against a distant band. Now far removed from echoes deep and old, I trade the rust for something pure and gold.	6	帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1
57	train	what if a much of a which of a wind by E.E. cummings	E.E. Cummings	"A poem about the earth being destroyed by natural disasters and humanity's unique capacity for bringing about its own irreversible apocalypse."	what if a much of a which of a wind gives truth to the summer's lie; bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun and yanks immortal stars awry? Blow king to beggar and queen to seem (blow friend to fiend:blow space to time) —when skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man what if a keen of a lean wind flays screaming hills with sleet and snow: strangles valleys by ropes of thing and stifles forests in white ago? Blow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind (blow pity to envy and soul to mind) —whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees, it's they shall cry hello to the spring what if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave and sprinkles nowhere with me and you? Blow soon to never and never to twice (blow life to isn't: blow death to was) —all nothing's only our hugest home; the most who die,the more we live	The volcano wakes with ancient breath To swallow valleys in a sea of red The storm gathers strength from shifting air And tears the fragile canopy apart These are the earth's old, heavy sighs A cycle written long before our first cry But we have learned a different art To carve the future from the present heart We built the fire that consumes the sky With hands that reach to touch the stars then die No asteroid strikes with such intent As the quiet poison we quietly sent The ice retreats not from solar heat But from the smog we weave around the street We hold the switch for every final door And turn the key without a single war Nature heals if given time and space But we erase the very healing place A unique sorrow marks this end Where monsters do not rise but friends descend To trade the green for gray and gold For stories never fully told The planet spins through empty dark Lit by the spark of our own work	The earthquakes shook from appetite of tectonics while fires burned by sympathetic sympathy of killing then came the floods that tasted salt from crying clouds all indifferent to whom returned to ash etcetera etcetera etcetera but none none went else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else el…	1	The mountains tremble and the oceans rise As tectonic plates collide in ancient rage A fever sweeps the burning, barren skies Where once the children played on leafy stage But worse than earthquakes shaking up the ground Or storms that tear the very roofs away Is how our hands have dug a hollowed grave To seal our fate in self-decided way We built the bombs that kill the air we breathe And poisoned wells where life was meant to spring While watching all the fragile things we loved Succumb to wars we invented ourselves No god or monster drove us to this edge Only the hunger of a thinking mind That chose to burn the future for a page Of history none of us will ever find The earth may shake and rage with natural spite But man invented death he cannot kill Irreversible and silent as the night Leaving only ash upon the empty hill One disaster came from stars and shifting stone Another grew from greed and hollow pride Both ended all we had to call our own But one was ours to bear and nowhere hide The planet breathes a gasp then goes quite still Not by the force of nature wild and free But by the hand that killed its loving skill Our irreversible apocalypse Coming home To nothing Nothing Evermore Again Never Returns The end Of All Things Now Done Silence Falls Like Dust On Broken Bone And Time Stands Still In Empty Space Where Once Was Life There Only Grave Exists For Everyone Who Failed To See The Warning Sign We Wrote In Fire On Every Wall Before It Burned Away Leaving Only Memory Of What Might Have Been If Not Destroyed By Our Own Hand First Then Earth Followed After Slowly Sinking Down Into The Dark Where No More Stars Shine Bright Only Cold Remains Of Everything We Were Defined By Love And War And Dreams Of Home All Gone Now Vanished From This View Of Nothing Left To Save Us From The End We Made Our Choice Selected Death Over Survival Clearly Seen In History Books That None Will Read Because Nobody Lives To Read Them Any Longer Here On Earth Which Used To Be Called Home By Those Who Thought They Knew How To Live We…	6	The volcano wakes to swallow cities whole While tides rise up to claim the coastal road The storm arrives with fury in its soul And nature bears a heavy, ancient load Yet these are forces old as time itself That rage and burn and flood without a choice But something darker lurks within the shelf Of human hands that silence nature's voice We built our towers high above the sand Then burned the forests down to clear the way We poisoned water with a greedy hand And turned the night into a burning day No earthquake planned such ruin from the start No hurricane designed the toxic air It is the cold and calculating heart That strips the living world of all it bears The ice will melt because we asked it to The oceans boil because we fed the flame There was no prophecy or fatal view Just endless hunger for a little gain Now ash falls soft like snow upon the dead A silent tomb where once the rivers ran The earth has reached its final breaking bed Destroyed by those who thought they were the man Who held the key to life but threw it away Leaving only dust and ghosts to pray For days that never come again today In irreversible and total gray	7	The volcano wakes from ancient sleep And spits its fire on the mountain peak The ocean rises, cold and deep To claim the cities that we seek These are the scars of nature's hand That shift the tectonic, shifting land But worse than quake or storm or flood Is what we build in blood and mud We hold the key to our own end A power no earthquake could pretend To split the atom, burn the air And strip the green from everywhere The ice melts not by winter's grace But by the fever of our race A choice made clear in every breath That leads us straight to certain death No asteroid could strike with such intent As this slow poison we have sent Through smokestacks high and oceans wide With nowhere left for us to hide The earth may heal if given time If we survive our own design But now the clock has stopped its tick And all we built begins to crack The final page is written now By human greed and human brow Irreversible and stark and true The world we knew is dead to you.	7	The mountain shakes and the ocean swells A violent breath from a fevered core But these are storms that have always been Before we drew our first breath on the shore The ice retreats with a cracking sound As forests burn in a sudden heat Yet nature heals what it has torn down In cycles old and ancient and sweet It is the hand that holds the match That strikes the spark no wind can quench To turn the blue to a choking ash And break the wheel beyond its reach We built the fire to warm the night Then fed it until it ate the sky A unique flaw in the human mind To watch the end and wonder why No comet strikes, no asteroid falls Just us, alone with our clever design To carve the grave with a steady hand And seal the fate of every line	6	The oceans rise to swallow coastlines whole As storms tear through the forests with a roar Yet these are forces old and wild and free That turn the tide but leave the seed behind But we possess a different kind of fire A cold precision born of greed and pride We build the walls that choke the sky above And forge the keys to lock our own demise No comet strikes us from the silent dark No asteroid demands our final breath We hold the detonator in our hands And choose the slow, the sweet, the sure decay The ice will melt because we made it so The air turns thick with poison we designed Nature could heal if given time and space But we have cut the thread before the end It is not fate that writes this final page Nor gods who punish us for ancient sins It is the mind that knows the cost too late And walks the cliff while laughing at the fall	6	The volcano wakes with ancient fire in its throat, And floods rewrite the coastlines where we built our homes. Yet storms alone could not erase the memory of stone, Nor turn the vibrant green to ash beneath the sun. It is the quiet hum within the silicon mind, The calculated greed that strips the forest bare, The nuclear promise kept until the final spark, That turns the turning tide into a wall of glass. Nature heals what time can break, what rain can wash away, But this is different silence, born of human hands. We hold the match above the dry and waiting grass, And watch the world dissolve without a second chance.	6	The oceans rise to swallow ancient stone, And fire turns the canopy to gray, Yet these are just the storms we make alone, The final acts written for this decay. For hurricanes obey the wind's design, And quakes release the crust beneath our feet, But only we create this grand decline, To make the perfect silence complete. We forge the chains that bind the rising tide, With smoke so thick it chokes the sun above, Nowhere left for hope to turn and hide, Just math of greed replacing simple love. The comet strikes with force beyond repair, A natural end within a cosmic frame, But what we build will rewrite atmosphere, And carve a scar without a single name.	6	The rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
61	ultra_held_out	The Trashpickers, Madison Street by Naomi Shihab Nye	Naomi Shihab Nye	"A poem about trash pickers murmuring and sorting through discarded items in the early morning, weaving dreams around rejected objects that offer glimpses into the lives of those who left them behind."	On the edge of dawn’s pale eye, the trashpickers are lifting the lid of every can, poking inside with bent hanger and stick. They murmur in a language soft as rags. What have we here? Their colorless overcoats drift and grow wings. They pull a creaking wagon, tinfoil wads, knotted string, to the cave where sacraments of usefulness are performed. Kneel to the triple weddings of an old nail. Rejoice in the rebirth of envelopes. The crooked skillet finds its first kingdom on a shelf where nothing is new. They dream small dreams, furry ones, a swatch of velvet passed hand-to-hand. Their hearts are compasses fixed to the ground and their love, more like moss than like fire	The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune As shadows stretch across the wet concrete Where figures move with quiet, practiced grace To sift the night's refuse for something sweet A child's red mitten, lost beside the bin Still holds the warmth of fingers small and cold They whisper soft about the games begun And stories that were never fully told A broken watch with glass like shattered ice That stopped exactly when the heart gave way They trace the gears with rough and calloused hands And dream of mornings that did not decay Murmurs rise like steam from coffee cups About the letters torn and thrown aside The ink still fresh with promises of love Now resting where the stray dogs come to hide They sort the plastic, paper, rusted steel And weave a tapestry from what was cast Each object speaks a fragment of a soul A memory too heavy for the past The sun begins to bleed into the gray Revealing faces worn by endless nights Who find in trash a strange and fragile hope Of lives that flickered out without a fight	Pale gas lamps hiss then flicker low while –––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– ––– …	1	The streetlamps flicker low as pale gray fingers brush the wet asphalt where cardboard boxes sigh and shoeboxes tremble in the dew their hands are quick and soft sorting spoons from shattered glass while voices drift like morning smoke a low and rhythmic hum of names recalled from broken tags and labels torn away a child's hairpin holds a secret party long since ended a man who threw his wedding ring aside to buy a drink now dreams of silver returned to skin he never touched again they sift through newspapers stained with coffee rings and wonder who once read about disasters far from here then folded it all up to hide the news from children asking questions about why people cry in empty rooms each object pulses with a borrowed life a toothbrush dreaming of a bathroom window looking out at snow that fell three years ago before the door was locked the murmuring grows as daylight stretches its yellow arm over piles of rejected things that secretly were loved by someone who had to let them go to survive another day of not being seen but found by those who know that everything left behind is just a map of where we went when no one was looking to see us weep or laugh or try to fly again before the trash truck comes to swallow all our ghosts away into the heat of noon where dreams are sorted out by size and weight and how much pain it took to throw them out at last and start over once more in the dark of night before the sun returns to wash the streets of everyone who had to leave their past behind to live inside the next big rush of new things coming down the conveyor belt of time that never stops to ask if we are ready yet to let go of the little bits of love we held too tightly then dropped on curbs where only hands that have nothing else will pick them up and call them treasure for an hour or two before moving on to next the next the next discarded heart that beats still under layers of dirt and ash and early morning frost that cracks beneath the foot of one who knows that every thrown away item has a story waiting …	2	The streetlamps hum a low and dying note As boots crunch on the wet and grey concrete They move in silence, then a sudden murmur starts Like bees disturbed from winter hives of dark A torn photograph clings to a plastic bag Where laughter once was frozen in a frame The picker pauses, tracing edges worn And sees a wedding day that never came A child's shoe lies abandoned by the curb With mud still caked upon its tiny sole He picks it up and holds it to his ear Hearing the echo of a running goal Another finds a book with pages curled From rain and time and neglectful hands He reads the margin notes in faded ink Of someone who no longer understands They sort the heap of broken things and dreams In piles of glass and rust and shattered wood Each object holds a ghost of who we were Before the morning light had understood The murmuring grows soft as dawn breaks through A chorus built from what the world threw away Weaving new stories from the discarded past To keep the night from swallowing the day	6	The streetlamps flicker low and pale As boots crunch glass on wet pavement gray They whisper soft to the rising mist Sorting through the night's debris A child's red shoe, a single lace Holds the ghost of a running race Where laughter once bounced off the wall Before the silence started to fall Murmurs rise like steam from tea About the man who threw away A wedding ring that lost its shine Along with all his broken time They trace the scratches on a phone That held a voice now left alone And wonder at the words unsaid Before the screen went dark and dead A torn photograph, curled at the edge Shows a beach and a summer pledge They fold it gently in their hands Building castles from discarded lands Each rusted can, each frayed string Sings a song of a vanished king Or queen who walked these same streets twice Leaving behind a slice of ice The sun begins to bleed the dark Igniting sparks within the arc Of plastic bags and cardboard boxes Filled with memories and old jokes They gather up the fragments wide With nowhere for the dreams to hide But in their pockets, warm and deep The city sleeps while they reap Not gold or silver from the ground But stories where true life is found In things the world decided not to keep While the rest of us are fast asleep	6	The streetlights hum a low and dying tune As shadows stretch across the wet pavement And hands, rough as bark, begin to move Through piles of what the city chose to forget A whisper passes between them soft and quick Like wind through dry leaves in a winter grove They sort the broken toys and torn receipts And weave new stories from the discarded love Here is a child's shoe with a missing lace That held a dream of running fast and free Now resting in a sack beside a rusted gate It speaks of laughter lost to memory There lies a photograph, the edges curled With faces smiling at a time now gone The picker traces lines of faded joy And wonders where those strangers have moved on A half-read book with coffee stains inside Holds words that someone started but could not finish They imagine the thoughts that filled that head Before the morning light began to glisten In every crumpled paper, every shard of glass A life unfolds in fragments and in whispers They gather up the pieces of the past And stitch them tight within their quiet visions The sun begins to bleed into the gray Washing over heaps of silver and of bone But in their minds, the trash becomes a treasure Of lives lived loud and then left all alone	6	The streetlights hum a low and fading tune As boots crunch softly on the dampened gray They bend to lift what yesterday was thrown away And whisper secrets to the rising moon A child's red shoe with one lace tied in knots Holds echoes of a race that never ran A broken watch still ticking for no man While murmured words drift up like drifting spots They sort through glass and rust and crumpled paper Reconstructing dinners left upon the floor The ghost of laughter from a closed-up door Where love once lived before it turned to vapor A ticket stub implies a journey made To somewhere far beyond this quiet block A letter stained with tears or perhaps smoke Reminds them that the discarded can't be fade In every fragment lies a story spun Of hands that held and hearts that beat too fast The past is waiting in the morning mist For those who know how to retrieve the sun They weave their dreams around these broken things And build a palace from the refuse pile Finding a kingdom in a single smile That lingered on a forgotten, frayed string	6	The streetlamps hum a low and tired tune As mist clings to the asphalt, gray and deep While shadows shift beneath the rising moon And silent hands begin their quiet sweep A crumpled receipt whispers of a meal Left on a counter in a hurry's wake A ticket stub that tells of something real That someone saw before they turned away They murmur soft against the waking chill Of rusted cans and plastic wrappers torn Weaving threads of hope from broken will To find the story hidden, slightly worn This coat still holds the shape of winter's cold A scarf unraveling like tangled thoughts Each object makes a narrative unfold Of love that bloomed or promises forgot The mirror cracked reflects a fractured face Of strangers sleeping in beds far away Where time has left this discarded place To wait until the light turns into day They sort the fragments with a gentle grace And build a castle from what others cast Finding within the refuse and the waste The echoes of a life that came so fast	6	The mist clings low above the broken glass where silence hums, until soft murmurs break the gray as hands adjust their caps. They turn the rusted frames with gentle strokes that make no sound against the crate, separating what is lost from what is found beneath the streetlights fading slow into the morning's quiet gold. A fractured mirror holds a smile erased so long ago, now caught within the weave of threads this weary worker spins, reimagining the dance inside this frame before it broke. The coffee stain expands into a map of places left, a journey written deep within the paper cup they keep. They whisper to the tangled wire coiled tight beneath the chair, crafting stories of repair for things the world forgot. Each rusted gear becomes a clock that ticked in someone's chest, each velvet remnant makes a crown upon a make-believe feast. So let them sort the fragments with the rhythm of their trade, turning cast-off shadows into light within the dawn. For every bottle cap reflects a sun that once was warm, and every thread unraveling creates a brand new form.	5	mist clings tight beneath rewrite …	1
62	train	In and Out of Time by Maya Angelou	Maya Angelou	"A poem about two people defining their enduring love while navigating struggles and moving towards a clearer, safer future together."	The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have. You were always mine. We have loved each other in and out of time. When the first stone looked up at the blazing sun and the first tree struggled up from the forest floor I had always loved you more. You freed your braids... gave your hair to the breeze. It hummed like a hive of honey bees. I reached in the mass for the sweet honey comb there... Mmmm... God how I love your hair. You saw me bludgeoned by circumstance. Lost, injured, hurt by chance. I screamed to the heavens... loudly screamed... Trying to change our nightmares into dreams... The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance our long way home. I was always yours to have. You were always mine. We have loved each other in and out in and out in and out of time.	The wind howled through the cracks we tried to seal With hands that shook and voices low and frail We counted every bruise, every wound revealed By storms that tested whether we would fail But in the quiet dark, a truth took root That love is not just sunlight on the face It is the stubborn, deep and silent shoot That finds a path through any barren place Now shadows stretch but do not block the way As dawn begins to break the heavy gray We walk together toward a brighter day Where safety waits to hold us safe at last No longer lost within the storm's embrace But building up a future, strong and vast	The road grew poor and our hair grew grey we learned the hard edges of saying 'elsewhere' went nowhere except back to killing not killing that killing etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etcete…	1	We walked through winters where the road grew thin And snow buried the marks of all our feet While silence threatened to rush back in Between the things we tried not to admit But hands stayed clasped when all else seemed to fail A stubborn anchor in a shifting sea We learned that love is not a fairy tale But choosing one another constantly The storms have passed and left a washed-out sky Where edges of the hills are sharp and clear No longer wondering if or why We only know that you are drawing near The path ahead is bright with morning light Not free of rocks, but steady as it goes We walk together towards a safer night With nowhere else for either of us goes Defined by scars and triumphs side by side Our story grows from roots that dug quite deep There was nowhere far enough to hide From promises we vowed ourselves to keep So let the future open up its door As confident as those who bear the past We do not ask for anything more Than knowing every step is yours and ours at last A shelter built from all we overcame To stand against the coming wind and rain Calling out softly just your name In a world that finally feels less insane We are the map and also both the way Moving forward from the dark to see How much stronger loving had to be To bring us home to who we were meant to be Safe at last Together Whole Home Free Clearly Two One Always Coming Towards The Sun Rising High Over Everything That Was Hard Before This New Day Begins With Both Of Us Walking On Straight Ahead Unafraid Knowing Only Love Remains Certain Sure Enduring Strong Clear Bright Here Now Always Next Step Taken Side by Side Forward Ever More Together Finally Safe At Last Beginning Again Not Starting Over But Moving On Up Out Away From All The Dark Into The Light Where Nothing Shadows Hide Anymore Only Open Road Only Your Hand Only Mine Only Us Only Peace Only Truth Only Love Only Future Only Home Only We Only You Only Me Only Us Only Always Only Now Only Next Only Today Only Tomorrow Only Ever Only Never Ending Only Beginning Only Start Only Fini…	6	The road was rough and lined with thorns Where silence often grew too loud We walked through storms that tore the dawn And hid behind a heavy cloud But in the dark we held on tight To promises we softly made A steady flame against the night That would not fade or be afraid We learned to speak when words were hard To listen past the anger's sting To find the shelter of your heart When winter tried to strip the spring No longer fighting side by side As separate ships in shifting seas We built a bridge where none had tried To walk together, hand in hands The path ahead is clearing now With morning light breaking the gray We shed the weight of every vow That kept us from a brighter day The future waits with open doors Not free from all that life may bring But strong enough to bear the loads On quiet feet and steady wing We move toward a safer place Defined not by the pain we knew But by the love that time could not erase And holds us both in all we do	7	The road was rough with stones we did not see And shadows stretched too long across the ground We held our breath and leaned on one another's knee While silence made a heavy, hollow sound But in that dark, a promise started deep Not loud or bright but steady as a stone A vow to watch the other while they sleep To never face the coming night alone Now storms have passed and left the air so clear The path ahead is washed by morning light We walk together, banishing all fear Of falling back into the endless night Our hands are calloused from the work we've done Yet grip much tighter than they ever could Two separate rivers merging into one Flowing toward a place where understood The love we built survives the breaking waves It stands between us and the things that hurt A shelter found within the quiet caves Where safety waits and heals every old hurt So let us go where dawn begins to rise With nothing left to hide and nowhere to run Just two souls looking at the open skies Together under one enduring sun	7	The wind howled through the cracks we could not seal, And shadows stretched across the floorboards worn, Yet in the quiet space where fear would kneel, Your hand found mine and kept us safely drawn. We learned to speak in whispers when the storm Brought thunder down to shake the fragile roof, To hold a steady flame against the norm Of chaos that sought to steal our only truth. No longer running from the dark ahead, We walk with lanterns lit by shared resolve, The path is rough but paved with words we said, A promise that the broken parts will solve. The future clears like dawn after the rain, Where safety waits beneath a wider sky, Two hearts that weathered loss and sharp disdain Now rise together, standing firm and high.	7	The road was rough with stones we did not choose, And shadows stretched long across the ground, But in the quiet space between our shoes, We found a rhythm that would never sound. You held my hand when storms began to break, And I became the shelter for your fear, For every promise that we dared to make, Was built on love that time could not make clear. Now mist is lifting from the valley floor, Revealing paths that lead to safer skies, We do not need to walk this path anymore, With only doubt and silence as replies. The future waits with open, gentle arms, No longer bound by what we used to fight, Just steady hearts and calm and healing charms, Walking together into clearer light.	7	The wind has howled against the glass for years, And we have stood within the shaking frame, Counting cracks that mapped our deepest fears, Yet never whispered out each other's name. We learned to walk on ground that shifted deep, To hold a hand when shadows tried to break, To find a rhythm in the storm's repeat, And make a promise that no tide could take. Now mist begins to lift from off the road, Revealing paths we carved through dark and cold, A lighter step beneath the rising load, As stories of survival start unfold. The future is not just a distant shore, But something built with patience, brick by brick, Where safety waits behind a sturdy door, And love becomes the compass, strong and quick. So let us move toward this clearer light, With scars that prove we weathered every gale, No longer lost within the endless night, But anchored safe within a shared detail.	7	The wind has howled against the glass for years, And shadows stretched across our weary floor, We've weathered storms that made us fear and fear, Yet found a quiet calm within the roar. You hold my hand when paths turn rough and steep, With eyes that fix upon the rising sun, Promising the promises we keep, Until the final battle is won. No longer lost beneath the mist so gray, We chart the course toward the clearer light, Where safety waits to make the break of day, And replace the chaos with a gentle night. So let us walk this road until it ends, Through tangled roots into the open plain, Building again what time can rewrite,	7	We carve make rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewr…	1
65	ultra_held_out	Apostate by Léonie Adams	Léonie Adams	A poem about a speaker marveling at the joyful freedom of the stars and aching to live as they do, unmasked and unbound by rules.	From weariness I looked out on the stars And there beheld them, fixed in throbbing joy, Nor racked by such mad dance of moods as mars For us each moment’s grace with swift alloy. And as they pierced the heavens’ serene deep An envy of that one consummate part Swept me, who mock. Whether I laugh or weep, Some inner silences are at my heart. Cold shame is mine for all the masks I wear, Belying that in me which shines and sings Before Him, to face down man’s alien stare— A graceless puppet on unmeaning strings, I that looked out, and saw, and was at rest, Stars, and faint wings, rose-etched along the west.	They dance in silent, silver arcs Above the heavy, rule-bound earth, No masks to hide their burning hearts, No chains of gravity or girth. Oh, how I ache to shed this skin, This suit of laws and whispered lies, To let the wild light rush within And meet the vast and open skies. No curfew holds the drifting fire, No judge decrees where they may roam, Just endless, unconfined desire That calls the wandering spirit home. I watch them spin without a care, Unbound by time or human law, And wish with all my soul to tear The fabric that I wear as awe. To be as they are, bright and free, Unmasked before the void's deep eye, A star in wild symmetry, Beneath the infinite and sky.	Look how they wheel not asking permission from the Edward EdwardEdwardEdwardEdward EdwardEdward EdwardEdward EdwardEdward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward 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Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward E…	1	They hang suspended in the velvet deep No laws to hold their burning breath Unmasked by clouds or secrets kept While all of earth is locked by death How wildly they spin in silent joy Without a governor or law A child who never learned to toy With guilt or sorrow or the saw That cuts our spirit from the bone I ache to be such naked light To burn and dance and call it home And vanish in the endless night No names to bear, no debts to pay Only the rush of gas and flame To live exactly as we may Before the universe grew tame My skin feels heavy like a shell Where theirs are open wide and free There is nowhere else to dwell But in that wild astronomy O stars, teach me how to fall Not down but out, away from here To have no master at all Except the dark and sudden year Of freedom burning bright and stark Unbound by time or mortal hand I long to be a shooting spark That none were ever asked to ban Unmasked before the morning comes As innocent as when begun Free from all those heavy drums That beat for everyone but none Save you who laugh in empty space Who know no rule but your own way Who wear no mask of human face Who live and die in dazzling day Why must I hide behind this skin When yours are clear and sharp and whole Why must the world come rushing in To steal the fire from my soul If only I could slip away Like ash from up an opened grate To join your uninhibited play And live unchained by late or date Then all would see the truth I bear That rules are just a hollow sound That love and wonder everywhere Are all that ever really bound The heart to jump and leap and fly Beyond the edge of sight and sense Beneath the indifferent sky Where nothing asks for recompense Except the joy of being there In radiant and reckless flight With hair tossed loose and breathing air That tastes of infinite delight How happy are the stars tonight How poor the man who knows his name Trapped in his cage of borrowed light Calling himself by another's fame Unbind me from the clay and dust Unmask the self I hid from view Return to elements…	6	They burn without a permission slip dancing in the vacuum, wild and free no laws of earth to hold their light no heavy masks of who we ought to be I watch them spin in silent joy unburdened by the weight of names while I am pinned by rules I chose and play the part that dulls my flames oh how I ache to shed this skin to drift where gravity cannot reach to be a spark, unmasked, unbound with nothing left for man to teach just pure and burning freedom there in fields of dark where no one sees the trembling heart that longs to break from all these chains of social ease let me be dust and distant fire unraveled from the human chain to live as stars have always lived without a single rule or pain	6	They dance in silent, silver arcs Unbound by law or heavy walls No mask to hide their burning hearts No ceiling where the freedom falls I watch them spin in wild delight Without a name or shame to keep While I am chained to day and night And buried in a quiet sleep Oh how I ache to shed this skin To burn without a guiding hand To let the dark rush rushing in And be as vast and unconfined as sand No rules to tell me where to go No voice to say you must not shine Just endless space and brilliant glow And stars that do not know the line	6	I watch them spin in silent, silver arcs Unburdened by the heavy weight of days No laws to hold their wild and wandering sparks No masks to hide the light within their gaze They do not bow to clocks or strict command Nor fear the shadow that the earth casts down They burn with such a fierce and free demand To wear the crown of darkness as a gown My heart aches for that vast and open space Where no one asks me who I must become To run without a trace, without a face To be the fire before the drum Oh, let me shed this skin of rules and names And drift where gravity has lost its hold To dance among the cold and ancient flames A story written only to unfold	7	I watch them burn in silent, wild delight No laws to chain their light within the night They spin without a script, they dance unbound While I am trapped beneath this heavy ground Oh how I ache to shed this human skin To let the ancient fire rush back within No masks of polite smiles to hide the pain Just pure and raw existence like the rain They do not ask for permission to be bright They simply are, a chaotic, burning sight Unburdened by the rules we write for men I wish to fall apart and rise again To scatter through the void with no regret A comet's tail where only truth is met No chains of duty, no expectations deep Just freedom that the sleeping stars can keep	6	I watch them spin in silent, silver glee, Unchained by gravity or human law, No heavy masks to hide their true decree, No whispered rules to make the spirit draw. They burn without a need for permission's light, Just wild and vast across the velvet deep, While I am bound within the narrow night, With promises I struggle to keep. Oh, how I ache to shed this crafted skin, To dance above the world that weighs me down, Letting the ancient chaos flow within, And wear no crown, no mask, no quiet frown. To be as they are: raw, unbound, and free, A single spark against the endless dark, Without the chains of what we ought to be, Just fire dancing in the cosmic arc.	6	I watch you burn across the velvet deep, So wild, so free, so unafraid to shine. You make no promise that you'll keep, You break no chains, rewrite no line. No masks of polish fix your face, No heavy rules to bind your light. Just pure and chaotic, blazing grace, That dances through the endless night. Oh, how I ache beneath this skin, To cast away the weight I wear. To let the ancient fire within, Expand into the boundless air. No judge would check my rising beam, No clock would tell me when to fade. Just dissolve into the cosmic stream, Unbound, unravelled, made unwade.	6	Above扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩	1
67	train	[A] Talisman by Marianne Moore	Marianne Moore	"A poem about a shepherd discovering a mysterious seagull-shaped talisman beneath the wreckage of a grounded, broken ship."	Under a splintered mast, torn from ship and cast near her hull, a stumbling shepherd found embedded in the ground, a sea-gull of lapis lazuli, a scarab of the sea, with wings spread— curling its coral feet, parting its beak to greet men long dead.	The tide had left the hull to rot and rust, A skeletal whale upon the shifting sand, Where gulls once screamed above the broken mast, Now silence held the wreckage in its hand. I walked among the splintered ribs of wood, My flock asleep within the distant dune, When something caught the light where shadows stood, Beneath a beam that fell like early moon. It was not bone, nor driftwood, nor old rope, But metal cold as winter's deepest breath, Carved into the shape of hope or scope, A seagull frozen in a silent death. Its wings were spread as if to catch the wind, Yet etched with symbols I could not decipher, A talisman from lands beyond the mind, That seemed to hum with some forgotten cipher. I lifted it and felt a sudden chill, As if the ocean whispered through the stone, The ship was dead, but this was made to will, A guardian for the lost who walk alone. No captain's coin, no sailor's lucky charm, Just bird-shaped magic found in ruin's keep, I tucked it close against my woolen arm, And watched the sea while all the world fell asleep.	The – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –	1	The beach was strewn with splintered bone Of ships that drowned and failed to swim Where salt had killed the living stone And silence grew both sharp and grim He searched among the twisted wood With hands worn rough by winter wind When sudden light from nowhere stood Beneath a rib of ribs he found A shell not sea nor bird or fish But talisman of strange design It seemed to hold a secret wish In curves of pearl and dull marine Its beak was pointed at the sky As if it waited for a flight From where the dark clouds gathered high To seize the edge of coming night He lifted up the seagull charm That weighed as much as heavy doubt And watched the morning start to warm Before all other sounds went out The wreckage groaned in mourning low While he held fast the hollow prize Wondering how such things could grow From depths where no man opens eyes Then tossed his head back to the sand Leaving the broken hull behind Tracing the line of sea and land With wonder burning in his mind For who had sailed to lose such grace Upon an ocean far and dead Or whom had left it there to hide Beneath the shipwreck and its dead He walked away with step unsure The talisman tucked in his breast As if some ancient law were poor Enough to fail such dire unrest The waves rolled in and washed the shore Of all the wood and wire and wreck Leaving him wondering once more About the secrets none knew next The bird remained a silent guest Between his palm and beating heart A guardian of unknown quest That drove the shepherd far apart From home and hearth and familiar ways Back toward hills of grass and green While thinking of those cloudy days When gods might walk on water seen Not gods but birds of silver skin Who fell from heavens hard and high Only to wait and then begin Their work when earth returned to dry He touched the beak one last time there And felt a vibration, soft and thin Like memory hanging in the air Of voyages never entered in Then buried him in thought again As footprints marked the wetted sand Returning to his sheep and pain With not…	6	The tide had pulled the timber back To leave a skeleton of pine Where salt and rust began to crack Against the stones in lines I walked among the broken ribs Of some great beast from far away When something glinted in the silt Beneath the grey and heavy clay It was not bone nor shell nor stone But metal cold and strangely bright A bird with wings of feathered bronze That caught the dying light Seagull shaped with beak of gold And eyes of deep and ocean blue It seemed to hold a story old That none but I should know or view The ship was dead, the sea was still Yet in my hand the talisman Felt warm as if it had a will To guide me through the span Of days that stretch from shore to sky Where gulls cry out their lonely song I held the bird and wondered why It waited here all winter long Perhaps it fell from heaven's gate Or rose from depths where monsters sleep To watch the shepherd tend his fate While others lost in dreams Now rests the wreck beneath the sand And I walk on with silent grace Holding the seagull in my hand Across this quiet, salted place	6	The tide had left the hull to rot and rust, A skeleton of timber on the sand, Where salt and silence held a heavy trust, And broken masts stood like a withered hand. I walked among the ribs of wood and bone, My flock asleep beneath the distant hill, When something caught the light of afternoon, Not glass or shell, but metal, sharp and still. It lay half-buried in the wet gray clay, A shape that mocked the birds I knew so well, With wings of silver stretched in flight away, And eyes of blue that held a secret spell. No seagull ever wore such cold design, Its beak was carved from some forgotten star, It seemed to hum a low and ancient line, As if it knew exactly where we are. I lifted up the talisman with care, And felt a tremor run along my skin, The air grew thick with salt and sudden air, As if the ocean called me back again. The ship was dead, its journey long since done, But this small bird would never touch the ground, It watched the setting of the dying sun, With silent grace and no discernible sound. I tucked it close against my woolen vest, Leaving the wreckage for the rising tide, To carry home this strange and hollow guest, With nowhere left for either ship or guide. The wind blew soft across the empty shore, As if the sea had whispered out a name, And I walked on, not quite as I before, Holding the ghost of flight within my palm.	6	The tide had pulled the galleon down To rest upon the shingle gray, Where splintered masts and broken crown Had surrendered to the day. I walked among the driftwood bones With staff of ash and woolen coat, Until a glint beneath the stones Became my sudden note. Not shell nor glass nor coral red, But silver shaped in wing and beak, A seagull from the deep instead, With eyes that seemed to speak. It lay within the keel's dark heart, Unmarred by rust or salt or time, As if it meant to start the art Of some forgotten rhyme. The wind blew cold across the sand, Yet warmth rose up from metal cool, A bird designed for no known land, Or perhaps a different rule. I lifted it with trembling hand, And felt the ocean's ancient hum, The ship was lost, but I now stand Where silent mysteries come.	7	The tide had left the hull to rot and rust, A skeleton of timber on the sand, Where gulls once screamed above the salty crust, Now silence held the broken, shifting land. I walked the ribs where ocean winds would howl, My staff in hand, my flock long gone to rest, When something caught the light beneath a bowler's shroud, Not bone or shell, but carved from deep-sea chest. It lay half-buried in the darkened slime, A shape of wings spread wide as if to fly, No bird of flesh could claim this form so prime, With eyes of polished stone against the sky. The beak was sharp with secrets of the deep, The feathers etched with tides that never cease, A talisman the drowning sailors keep, To guide the lost toward a final peace. I lifted it and felt a sudden chill, As if the sea itself breathed through the air, The seagull's gaze made time stand still, And left me standing there beyond repair. Now I walk home with weight upon my palm, Beneath the moon that watches from above, This silent bird becomes my quiet psalm, A mystery wrapped in salt and ancient love.	6	The tide receded from the rusted ribs, Leaving the gulls to circle silent skies above the deep. I walked where splintered timber met the sand, A shepherd seeking lost and wandering sheep. Beneath a beam of oak, now black with rot, Something caught the morning's pale and trembling light. Not gold, nor bone, but carved from stone so white, It held the shape of wings that could not fly. A seagull talisman, with eyes of glass, Still turned toward a horizon long since gone. No wind could make it shift or make it pass, Though waves had sung their final, heavy song. I picked it up, the weight was strange and cold, As if the ocean kept a secret here. The broken ship told stories untold, Of storms that made the bravest sailors fear. Now in my pocket, warm against my coat, The bird looks out upon the grazing flock. A guardian found within the captain's throat, To watch the land while I return the clock.	5	The mist clung low upon the craggy shore, Where silence reigned above the breakers' roar. I guided my flock beneath the gray, damp veil, Until I stumbled where the timbers trail. A galleon split, its ribs exposed to tide, With rusted chains and tangled rigging tied. Beneath a plank of oak, decay'd and deep, Something within the rotting shadows sleep. I knelt amidst the slime and scattered foam, And felt beneath my calloused, sun-worn thumb. No coin of gold, no gem from distant lands, But carved with wings that mimic soaring bands. A seagull shaped in silver, cold and bright, That caught the weak reflection of the light. Its eyes were polished stone, so vast and deep, As if it watched while centuries would sleep. The wind beneath its carved expand'd wings, Echo'd the song the lost vessel sings. I held the talisman against my chest, And put my weary, wandering soul to rest.	6	The mist clung tight above the rewrite'd tide, Until I found what make reply write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write w…	1
86	train	Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins	Gerard Manley Hopkins	"A poem about a young girl grieving over falling leaves, unknowingly mourning her own mortality."	to a young child Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.	She crouches in the garden dirt To catch a maple's final spin, Her small hands open, soft and hurt, As winter waits to rush within. Why must they let go of the bough? She asks the wind that shakes the tree, With tears she cannot quite explain, For falling things seem wrong to be. She counts the cracks upon the bark, The yellow veins that turn to brown, And feels a strange and sudden dark That pulls her down to touch the ground. It is not just the leaves she weeps, But something deep inside her chest, A promise that the sleep she keeps Will one day call her home to rest. She does not know her time will come, Like autumn's end, like cold and gray, She only knows the silence hums When all the vibrant green goes away.	She watched the maple children jump from – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	She crouches low where autumn breath Has stripped the boughs of all their dress And watches one by one they fall A brittle sigh, a sudden hiss Of dry and brown and broken things That once were high among the stars Now crushed beneath her tiny feet She wonders why they had to go Why such bright hair must turn to dust She brushes off her scraped-up knee With trembling hands and wetter eyes Not knowing she counts down her days In every leaf that hits the ground She mourns the tree but not herself Who also waits for winter's cold To strip away her living green And lie quite still in earth as well As all the others did before The child who cries for falling leaves Will one day be a fallen leaf Among the ones she cried about While thinking only of the trees The wind blows hard and takes them all Leaving her small and very late To wonder why she grew so tall If everything must fall away She holds her breath and starts to weep For those who cannot stay Not knowing she has said Goodbye to herself Before she even knows She had begun To live At all Only The Grinding Sound Of Dirt On Bone Returns To Silence In The End When Nothing Stays But Winter Coming Soon Like All Things Must Come Home To Dust Where Everything Begins Again In Darkness Waiting There Beneath The Root Of Every Tree She Cried Over Today Who Was Never Really Mine Nor Anyone Else Either Just A Moment Long Enough To Grieve Then Pass Away Like Leaves That Fall Down Slow And Cover Up The Road We Used To Know Before It Faded Out From View Behind Her Back She Does Not See How Little Time She Has Left Here To Stand And Watch It Go Away From Her Own Hand Which Opens Wide To Catch None More Than Empty Air That Whispers Low And Hard About How Quickly Summer Runs Out There Among The Grass That Turns To Gray And Waits For Snow To Hide It All From Sight Of Those Who Walk Besides The Edge Of Life And Death Both Near And Far Apart In One Big Heap Of Broken Things She Called By Name Once Long ago Before She Knew Her Name Was Also Falling Down Like All The Rest …	2	She watches them descend in slow descent A brittle gold that cracks beneath her shoe And wonders why the trees have lost their rent Of summer green to let the autumn through She counts the ones that fall and cannot rise Each one a small and silent funeral A tear falls from her own surprised blue eyes As if she knows exactly how they fell The wind blows cold against her tender skin It whispers secrets of a coming night She does not know where all the leaves have been Or that she too must fade into the light She gathers up a handful of the dead And presses them close to her beating heart Unknowing of the path her feet have tread Nor that she is the leaf about to part The ground waits open with a hungry mouth To swallow all the colors, all the sound She thinks it only happens here on earth But she is falling downward to the ground	7	She watches gold and crimson drift To meet the damp and waiting earth, And counts the ones that lose their grip Before they know their final birth. A tear falls for the brittle vein That once held summer in its grasp, As if a life could not sustain The sudden cold of winter's clasp. She presses fingers to her chest Where something soft begins to fade, Unknowing that she is the guest Who will not stay within the shade. The wind blows through her hair so light Like breath that leaves a body soon, She mourns the falling leaf at night While walking toward her own noon. The tree stands bare against the gray With branches stripped of all it knew, She does not see the coming day When she must say a last adieu. Just sorrow for the scattered brown That covers grass with silent weight, Not knowing she will wear the crown Of dust before it is too late.	7	She watches the maple let go of its red And drifts down to the gray and damp ground below A small hand reaches out to catch one in flight But it slips through her fingers like smoke in the night Why do they fall? she asks with a frown When the summer was warm and the green never drowned The wind takes them all without asking permission Leaving the branches bare for the winter's submission She weeps for the leaf that could not hold on tight For the sudden stillness, the end of the light Not knowing the tree is a mirror of bone Or that she too must leave this place all alone The soil waits softly beneath her small feet Where the roots drink the rain and the shadows meet She mourns what has ended before it began Unaware she is singing her own funeral song As the last of the autumn turns cold in her hands.	6	She watches gold turn brittle in the wind And counts the ones that fall before they land A quiet rustle where the branches thin Like fingers losing grip upon the sand Oh, why must beauty break and drift away? She whispers to the ground beneath her feet As if the season stole the light of day And left a shadow where the sun once beat She does not know this ache is deep and old That every leaf she mourns is just a sign Of time that turns the story from the bold To dust that waits for winter's cold design The girl will fade as surely as the tree Though now she only weeps for falling green Unaware that soon she too must be A memory within the space between	7	She kneels upon the damp and turning grass To catch the crimson spirals as they fall, And whispers to the brittle, drying mass That this is wrong, that nothing should end at all. Her small hands cradle veins of gold and rust, As if she could repair the fraying edge, Believing time can be held in a fist, Or kept from sliding off the leafy ledge. She does not know that every stem that breaks Is just a mirror for her own short breath, That winter waits beneath the fading lakes, And silence follows even quiet death. She weeps for what the wind has stolen now, Unaware she mourns the girl she used to be, Before the frost would settle on her brow, Before the final, falling leaf set free.	6	The girl sits beneath the oak so deep, And counts the rustling leaves asleep. One turns to gold, then drops below, Into the shadow's quiet flow. She whispers soft to make them stay, But wind takes them and leads away. "I'll save you here within my hand, So nothing fades across this land." Her fingers close around the dry, A brittle proof that time can die. Yet she does not feel the chill that creeps, Within the veins where silence sleeps. For every branch that sheds its crown, Is just a mirror turned around. Though tears mix with the decaying brown, She weeps for what is cast down. The season changes without sound, Until the final leaf is found.	6	The rewrite 帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1
88	ultra_held_out	Sonnet 16 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning	Elizabeth Barrett Browning	A poem about a speaker dedicating herself to newfound love and happiness, overcoming past sorrow with the protection of her beloved.	And yet, because thou overcomest so, Because thou art more noble and like a king, Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow Too close against thine heart henceforth to know How it shook when alone. Why, conquering May prove as lordly and complete a thing In lifting upward, as in crushing low! And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword To one who lifts him from the bloody earth, Even so, Beloved, I at last record, Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth, I rise above abasement at the word. Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth.	The shadows that once clung to my skin Have finally begun to fade, Replaced by a light I thought was lost, A warmth the cold could never invade. I lay down the heavy stones of grief, The tears I cried in silence long, For you have built a shelter here, Where broken things are made strong. Your hand is the wall against the storm, Your voice the calm within the rain, I step out from the ruins of yesterday, To walk again through fields of green. No longer do I fear the night, Or wonder if the dawn will come, For in your arms, the past dissolves, And leaves me safe and overcome. I give my heart, no longer fractured, To this new and tender day, Let sorrow be a distant memory, Washed clean and far away. Here in your gaze, I find my home, A happiness I cannot name, Dedicated wholly to the love That healed me without blame.	The winter Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edw…	1	The winter of my heart has finally thawed As icy shadows slip away from view No longer by the hollow ache were drawn But to the shelter offered up by you I lay aside the armor I had worn Of guarded days and silence steeped in gray For all the tears that cried themselves were torn To wash the heavy dust of years away Your hands have built a wall against the pain That once defined the edges of my soul Where sorrow walked like driving, stinging rain You brought the light to mend the broken whole And here I stand with open arms and breath Ready to live beyond the edge of death Not as a survivor of the fall But yours, who answers happiness's call So let the past be buried in the snow While we watch spring begin its tender growth In every step your loving confidence Has taught my spirit how to love and laugh The joy I knew was but a fleeting guest Before you came and settled in my breast Now happy hours stretch out before our feet Protected by the strength of such a sweet Devotion that no storm can ever shake A promise that for all our lives we'll take This radiant path where laughter starts anew My whole self given over wholly to The man who stopped the hurting and the crying Who watched his own bright world come back alive With me beside him walking side by side With nowhere left for sadness or for hide Only the warmth of being loved again By whom I was always meant to remain Dedicated now to all things good Understanding at last exactly why Love lifted up her head from where she stood In darkness 'neath a indifferent sky It is not easy nor was it quick To learn to trust another after such A long and difficult and painful trick Played by the cruel and unrelenting luck But seeing in your eyes a steady fire Returns the appetite for life and desire To feel the sun and taste the morning dew And know that all of it belongs to you Who holds the key to locking out the night Who guards the door and sets the lamps alight No more alone to face the coming gloom But safe and warm within our common room Where happiness resides an…	7	The winter of my heart has finally broken As spring returns to fields I thought were dead No longer by the ghosts of sorrow spoken I lift my head and let the light instead Fall softly on the scars that time had marked And wash them clean with hands you hold so tight For every tear that once was painfully dark Now drowns in morning's golden, gentle light You stand between the shadows and my skin A shield against the winds that used to blow Where darkness ended, new beginnings begin And all the old despair is gone below I give myself to joy without a fear To love that guards the happiness we share The past is silent now, the path is clear With you beside me, breathing easy air No storm can reach us here where we have grown Protected by the promise of your hand This garden of our life is fully sown In soil rich enough for all to stand So let the world outside spin on its way While I remain within this sacred space Dedicated wholly to this brighter day Enfolded in your warm and steady grace	7	The winter in my bones has finally thawed Since you stepped in to shield me from the rain No longer do I fear the storm that raged Or count the shadows of a broken chain You hold me close and turn the page for me To stories where the light begins to bloom And all the grief I carried silently Is swept away to clear a brighter room I lay down armor forged in years of pain And let your gentle hands unbind my heart For in your gaze, there is no trace of strain Only a new and hopeful fresh start So here I stand, devoted and awake With happiness as mine to keep and hold A promise that I will not ever break Within the safety of your arms so bold Let sorrow fade like mist before the sun As I give all my love to you alone The battle fought and won by just one Who guides me safely to a better home	7	The winter of my heart has finally broken, As frost retreats beneath a gentle sun. No longer do I walk alone and shaken, Or fear the shadows where the day is done. You stand between me and the storm's old fury, A shield against the ghosts that used to haunt. Your love is now my quiet, steady story, Where every tear finds safe and soft account. I cast aside the heavy cloak of sorrow, And trade the gray for colors bright and new. For in your arms, I find a brighter morrow, And wake each day with hope instead of blue. Let past regrets dissolve like mist at morning, Replaced by warmth that only you can give. My spirit rises, no more cold or warning, But learning how to truly live again.	7	The winter of my heart has finally thawed As shadows retreat before your gentle light, No longer do I walk the path I walked alone, Beneath a sky that once was gray and tight. I lay my heavy armor at your feet, For every scar you hold with tender care, You shield me now from winds that used to break, And weave a safety net within the air. The tears I cried for what was lost remain, But now they wash the soil where hope takes root, Your hand is steady on my trembling shoulder, A quiet promise that dispels the brute. I give myself to this new dawn we share, To laughter loud enough to drown the past, With you as guardian against the storm, My sorrow fades, and happiness is cast.	7	The winter in my chest has finally thawed, Revealing soil where seeds of joy can grow. I lay the heavy cloak of grief aside, And let the sun dissolve the ghostly snow. No longer do I walk the path alone, With shadows trailing close behind my feet. Your hand is now the shield against the storm, A fortress built on promises so sweet. The tears that once were salt within my eyes, Now turn to light reflecting off your face. You hold me safe within this quiet peace, And give my weary spirit gentle grace. So here I stand, reborn beneath your gaze, With sorrow lost beneath a deeper sea. My heart belongs entirely to you now, Dedicated fully to what we will be.	7	The shadows that I carried deep within my chest have finally faded, Replaced by golden light that streams beneath the canopy above. I cast away the heavy chains of memories made only to break me, And wrap myself within the quiet safety of this newfound love. No storm can touch us now so long as you stand guard beside my side, For in your eyes I find a harbor where the fractured pieces heal. The tears I shed beneath the gray mist turn into rain for blooming pride, As every scar becomes a map leading toward what is truly real. So let the wind erase the echoes of the nights I walked alone, I give my heart entirely to write this gentle story with you.	7	rewrite	1
91	train	Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden	W.H. Auden	A poem about suffering going unnoticed as it fades into the background while others continue ploughing, sailing, and going about their mundane lives.	About suffering they were never wrong, The old Masters: how well they understood Its human position: how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.	The crack in the wall widens by a hair while the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic care the ship cuts through the gray and rolling foam and no one looks to see where I have come My silence is a stone beneath the floor that settles deeper as they walk out the door they plough the fields and sing of harvest gold unaware of the story left untold The wind blows hard against the window pane but drowns the sound of my quiet, slow decline they sail on waves that crash and turn to white oblivious to the fading of the light So let the world spin on its busy axis while I become a ghost within the matrix of daily tasks and ordinary grace erasing me without a single trace	Otherwise otherwise else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else els…	1	The pain was sharp enough to tear the skin But grew dull as wood in wet December air It settled low where shadows often begin And learned to sit quite still and nowhere near While farmers drove their horses down the row Their hands all callous from the working years They watched the clouds but never saw it grow Or heard the silent weeping of theears A ship sailed out on tides indifferent With sails full of a wind that knew no grief It passed the bay where suffering had been sent To live unnoticed like a passing leaf They went about the buying and the selling Of things that mattered only for the day While all the agony they were not feeling Just faded back and slipped far, far away No notice taken when the heart grew heavy No pause in work when spirits started sinking The world moved on, impatient and unsteady Leaving the broken part of man thinking That silence was the loudest sound of all As life returned to ordinary ways Ignoring how the unseen figures fall Into the background of the busy days The plough goes straight, the pennants flap and fly The boats are manned by those who know not why Some suffer most when nobody looks on Then slowly, softly, sufferance is gone Not killed or cured but simply pushed aside To join the dust of nowhere else besides Where others laugh and eat and live and see Nothing but themselves and liberty The mundane life returns to all its glory Erasing any record of the sorrow Leaving behind a pale and hollow memory That none will ever wonder at tomorrow The ship arrives, the harvest fills the bin The suffering has entered back again Not as a guest but as a ghostly trace Behind the smiling and familiar face Of everyone who lives and works and plays Blind to the darkness hiding in the rays Of morning light that touches everything Except the notes of joyless mourning Which have dissolved into the common space Like water dropped and then rubbed off a face By busy hands that care for other things While suffering learns to be invisible Among the many whom it cannot kill Only to hide and wait…	7	The ache settles deep in the floorboards while the farmer turns his heavy furrow ignoring the tremor in the earth that signals nothing but a shift of dust. A ship cuts white foam through the grey and the sailor mends his torn net never hearing the silence screaming from the hull below the waterline. Children laugh in the kitchen stirring soup that smells of thyme as the shadow in the corner dissolves into the afternoon light. No one stops to watch it fade no hand reaches out to hold the quiet thing that breaks while the world insists on moving forward onward, onward, never looking back at the ruin left behind in the blind and busy rush of ordinary days.	2	The wound has grown so quiet now It wears the skin like second cloth While ploughmen turn the heavy earth And do not feel the sudden loss A sailor charts the shifting wind With eyes fixed on a distant star He never sees the shadow sink Beneath the keel of where we are The baker kneads his rising dough The child chases a rolling stone They walk the paths they always know Leaving the broken ones alone The silence grows to fill the room As ordinary days proceed A flower blooms inside the gloom That no one stops to look or heed We fade into the background hum Of carts and wheels and daily sound Until the suffering becomes numb And simply is no longer found	6	The crack in the wall widens slowly while the baker kneads his dough and the river keeps its steady course ignoring the stone that sinks below. A shadow lengthens on the floor as the farmer turns the heavy plough the sail catches wind and moves away leaving the silence standing now. No one sees the color fade from the window where the light grows thin the world rolls on with tireless feet letting the quiet hurt begin. They walk past the broken door they steer their ships through storm and calm the background hums a steady tune that drowns out every silent alarm. And so it fades into the gray a whisper lost beneath the sound of daily life moving forward while suffering stays quietly bound.	6	The crack in the wall widens slowly while the plough turns the earth with rhythmic ease and no one looks to see the dust settle on the beam or how the silence grows heavy in the corner A ship cuts through the grey water its sails full of wind that does not know my name the crew sings a song about distant shores ignoring the ghost that drifts beneath their keel Coffee steams in a cup on a busy street shoes click against pavement, a steady drumbeat of lives moving forward, unbroken and bright past the shadow that shrinks into the floorboards I am becoming part of the wallpaper now a faint stain that the sun forgets to warm as the world spins on its axis of noise and light carrying its cargo of ordinary things	3	The wound does not bleed upon the cobblestone It simply cools into a grey static hum While the ploughman turns the earth in heavy rows Unaware that something breaks beneath his boot A ship cuts through the morning mist and foam Its crew singing songs of wind and distant shore They do not hear the silence growing deep inside the hull Or the quiet fracture widening in the dark Coffee steams on tables where the world is made of noise And lovers argue over bills and broken glass The sun climbs high to dry the sweat on every brow Ignoring how the shadow lengthens in the corner No one stops to check the pulse that slows to nothing As the cart rolls on, the sails fill tight with air The mundane tide rises up to swallow what remains Until the fading pain is just another part of the weather	5	The plow turns deep into the turning soil, And splits the quiet ground without a sound. Above, the wind continues to make trails, As sails expand upon the shifting tide. I fade beneath the rust of rusting chains, A shadow cast beneath a noon so bright. No eye is turned to check the unraveling thread, For every gaze is fixed on what lies ahead. They write their letters, fix the broken gate, And mix the paint upon the porch's frame. My silence joins the hum of distant bees, Just static noise within the drone of day. The vessel cuts the foam with steady stroke, Unmindful that I sink within its wake. The world moves forward, vast and unimpaired, While I dissolve into the droning draft.	6	The rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write …	1
93	ultra_held_out	Balloons by Sylvia Plath	Sylvia Plath	"A poem about finding fleeting beauty in ordinary things, only to be pulled back into a harsh reality that shatters innocence and childhood dreams."	Since Christmas they have lived with us, Guileless and clear, Oval soul-animals, Taking up half the space, Moving and rubbing on the silk Invisible air drifts, Giving a shriek and pop When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling. Yellow cathead, blue fish———— Such queer moons we live with Instead of dead furniture! Straw mats, white walls And these traveling Globes of thin air, red, green, Delighting The heart like wishes or free Peacocks blessing Old ground with a feather Beaten in starry metals. Your small Brother is making His balloon squeak like a cat. Seeming to see A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it, He bites, Then sits Back, fat jug Contemplating a world clear as water. A red Shred in his little fist. 5 February 1963	The dust motes danced in afternoon light Like tiny stars trapped in a jar of air I held my breath to catch their flight And found a universe beyond compare A dandelion clock upon the lawn Held secrets of the wind I could not know The world was soft before the dawn With colors only children seem to grow But then the door slammed hard and deep A voice that cut the silence like a knife Woke me from the quiet, golden sleep To show the jagged edges of real life The stars turned back to floating dust The magic faded with the setting sun The trust we placed in dreams was crushed By things we knew were never meant to be done Now innocence is just a broken thing Left on the floor where shadows start to creep While childhood songs no longer sing And promises are buried in our sleep	The dew was a – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The dew clung to the spiderweb A million diamonds in the morning light I saw a universe in that thin silver strand Where children were kings and monsters were shy We ran through fields of tall, green grass Believing the world was soft and whole That every broken twig grew back And pain was just a rumor from far away But then the bell rang sharp and sudden Calling us back to concrete floors The web snapped under a careless shoe Dissolving into invisible dust The sky opened up not with wonder But with gray clouds heavy as stone Dreams shattered like glass on hard pavement Leaving only edges sharp enough to cut Innocence bled out on the sidewalk As we grew up too fast To notice the beauty Or care about getting burned Again Again Always Returning to the hard edge of now where nothing else is real but this stark and silent pain that never went away it only waited for us to look away from the light before snatching it back with cold hands that know no joy only the end of everything we once were thinking was forever but was never more than a breath held too long then released into the empty air of adulthood where no magic lives only the dull thud of footsteps on dead ground chasing ghosts of who we used to be while time rushes by unmoved by our tears or our wonder or our need to believe in anything other than the next hard step forward into the dark that has always been there waiting behind every pretty picture we tried to draw over it with crayons that have long since run out of color leaving only white space and shadows stretching out to meet us at the door of another day that offers no new stories only old ones retold with heavier voices and eyes that have seen too much to ever close them again without feeling the weight of all that was lost not just yesterday but every single moment of false hope that said it would get better when really it only got harder and quieter and more alone as the world kept spinning blind to our small heartbreak which was big enough to stop our hearts if we let it but we didn't we kept wal…	2	The dandelion clock held the whole summer sky In a puff of white that drifted slow and high A universe of seeds on a breath of air Where nothing ever had to worry or care I watched them spin in the golden afternoon light Thinking I could catch one and hold it tight But the wind grew cold and the shadows stretched long And the song of the bird turned suddenly wrong Then the door slammed shut with a violent sound And the world rushed back where no peace is found The pavement cracked under feet that were small As the fairy tale ended and silence fell all No more magic dust on the edge of the street Just the gray concrete and the bitter defeat Of a child who learned that the pretty things break And the dreams we held are the first ones to shake Now the ordinary stares with a hollow eye While the innocence dies as the clouds go by Shattered glass on the floor of the mind Leaving only the harsh truth far behind.	6	A dandelion pushes through the crack Where sunlight spills in gold and warm I hold my breath to catch the light Before it fades like morning dew The world was soft, a painted dream Of endless summers, safe and bright No shadows stretched across the grass No heavy clouds to block the sun Then came the sound of breaking glass A sudden shout, a slamming door The golden light turned cold and gray As truth rushed in to steal the air The flower crushed beneath a boot The dream dissolved in bitter rain Now only concrete hardens here And innocence is lost to pain	6	The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light Were fairies holding hands in golden flight, A secret world where time stood still and sweet, With magic hiding underneath my feet. I watched a dandelion turn to seed, And thought it was a wish I could indeed Make come true if I just closed my eyes tight, Believing in the soft and gentle night. But then the screen door slammed against the frame, And shattered all the quiet, fragile game. The fairy dust dissolved into the gray, As harsh words cut the happy day away. The dandelion was just a weed to kill, Beneath the weight of grown-up, cold chill. No wishes left to catch upon the breeze, Just empty streets and rusted iron keys.	7	The dandelion clock holds the sun in a thousand tiny golden spheres, a wish made of wind and dust, where time moves slow and soft. I catch the light in my cupped hands, believing the world is made of glass that never breaks, that the magic of morning will last forever, that I am safe inside this quiet dream. Then the heavy door slams shut, and the cold air rushes in to steal the breath, shattering the fragile gold into gray ash. The streetlights flicker on with a harsh buzz, revealing cracks in the pavement and shadows deep as holes, the innocence dissolving like mist under a scorching sun. Now I stand alone in the noise, holding nothing but the memory of what was lost, watching the child within me fade into the dark.	6	The sunlight caught the dust motes dancing slow Above the kitchen floor where I once played, A golden galaxy in quiet flow, Where make-believe castles never fade. I held my breath to keep the magic there, To let the world dissolve into soft light, But then a car alarm cut through the air, And shadows stretched across the fading white. The glass of hope I'd cradled in my hands, Cracked under weight of bills and broken trust, Revealing cracks within these quiet lands, Turning the gold to rust and turning dust. Now innocence retreats behind the eyes, As childhood dreams are swept beneath the rug, Beneath the gray and unforgiving skies, Where nothing stays, and everything is shrug.	6	The sunlight caught the dust motes dancing slow above the rug, Turning gray specks into gold within a quiet afternoon. I held my breath to catch the perfect pattern of a moth upon the glass, Believing magic lived beneath this humble patch of polish. The world felt soft as velvet, wrapped in colors made for make-believe, Where castles rise from cardboard boxes and dragons sleep beneath the bed. I whispered promises to shadows that they'd keep forever kind, And let the rustle of dry leaves rewrite the script of what is true. Then rain began to drum against the window with a cold, metallic sound, Revealing cracks within the plaster where the mold has started deep. The moth beat wings until it fractured, lost within its final flight, And silence turned into a void where no reply can make me wake.	3	帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1
96	ultra_held_out	Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman	Walt Whitman	A poem about a speaker embarking on an open road journey, freely choosing his own destiny and carrying life's burdens with him as they arise.	Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road. The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them. (Still here I carry my old delicious burdens, I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go, I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)	The asphalt stretches out a gray and endless tongue I step away from walls that held me too long No map is folded in my pocket now Just the wind that whispers where to bow I do not know the name of any town I'll find Only the rhythm beating in my mind To choose the path, to turn when shadows grow And let the future bloom or fade or flow If sorrow comes it rides beside me on the seat A heavy coat I wear when rain and sleet Are falling hard upon the dusty glass I carry every weight as hours pass For burdens are the anchors of the soul That keep the spirit whole when cracks appear I take them up with hands both open wide And walk until the turning point inside The horizon calls a promise unconfined Leaving the old and broken things behind Not running from the pain that makes us real But driving forward with the things we feel	The map dissolves in morning dust as tires kiss the hairpin curves where nowhere – nowhere – opens like a mouth ready to taste the uninvented hours selected not by gods or dates but by impulse by breath by sudden joy that tastes of gas pennuch and end coming next etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etc…	1	The asphalt stretches out like a silent vow Under a sky that asks for nothing Only the engine hums a low and steady prayer As I steer away from maps drawn by other hands There is no destination marked in stars Only the next hill and the next breath I carry the heavy stones of yesterday Not as anchors but as ballast To keep the ship steady when the winds grow sharp Joy comes lightly on the breeze Sorrow settles in the passenger seat Both are mine to hold Both are mine to let go The road demands no confession It only offers motion And in this endless rolling I am whole I am free I am driving Straight into the unknown With all my weight And all my wonder In tow The horizon waits Not with an answer But with another mile Another choice Another chance To be Exactly who I am Becoming One More Step Away From Where I Began Toward Where Nothing Is Certain Except The Wheel In My Hands And The Road Before Me Stretching On Forever Unbroken By Fear Or Time Just Moving Moving Moving Forward Always Forward Carrying Everything That Matters Leaving Nothing Behind But Footprints That The Wind Will Soon Blow Away While I Drive On Into The Light Of My Own Making Selected Chosen Mine Alone At Last Free To Be Burdened And Whole All At Once On This Open Way Where Every Kilometer Is A New Beginning Waiting For Me To Arrive Not Finished Never Finished Just Driving Driving Driving Home To Wherever Next Stops Calling Out My Name In The Language Of Tires On Dry Earth Saying Only Go Go Go And See What Comes Next As It Arises As It Must Unfolding Like A Map Drawn In Real Time By Hands That Know How To Hold Both Grief And Grace Without Trembling Because The Road Is Long But The Heart Is Strong Enough To Bear It All Towards The Edge Of Sight Where Destiny Waits Not As A Prize But As A Partner Walking Beside Me In The Dust Of Our Own Making Ready For Whatever Happens Next Ready To Carry It All Again Again Again On This Open Road Wher…	5	The asphalt stretches out like a ribbon unspooled And I step forward without asking permission No map to dictate the curves of the day Only the wind and the weight in my hands Some days the load is light as a feather Just the dust of yesterday clinging to my boots Other times it grows heavy with grief or doubt A stone I must carry before I can lift But I do not set it down by the roadside I do not beg for an easier path For every burden earned is a part of the story Every sorrow a mile marker on this long road I choose the horizon that pulls at my chest I choose the unknown that waits in the dark With all that I am and all that I bear I walk where I will until the wheels stop turning Free to be broken and free to be whole Carrying it all as I go.	6	The asphalt stretches out a ribbon gray Where I decide the miles and where they end No map to guide the turning of the day No master's voice to say which way to bend I walk with empty hands at first but soon The weight begins to gather on my skin A heavy stone of sorrow from last June And dust that clings to where the rain has been I do not drop them by the roadside weeds Nor throw them in the river as I pass They are the seeds of all the things I need To build the shelter from the coming glass Let the wind howl its warnings through the trees Let the horizon shift and pull away I carry every burden that brings ease And choose the path that leads into the day My destiny is not a written line But something forged in every step I take With all the joy and grief that I define As long as there is breath and earth to shake	6	The asphalt stretches out a gray ribbon Unfurling toward a horizon I have never seen No map in hand, no voice to tell me where to turn Only the hum of tires and the wind's soft plea I step forward with a backpack light as air Yet heavy with the stones I chose to keep The grief that shaped my hands, the joy that broke my sleep These are not chains but compass points to steer By day I walk where shadows lengthen long By night I rest beneath a sky of shifting stars If sorrow finds me on this winding path I will not drop it by the roadside dust I carry it until it turns to something new A lesson etched into the rhythm of my stride The road is mine to carve, the destination mine to name And every burden lifted or laid down Is simply part of how I learn to be Free to go, free to stay, free to bear it all.	6	The asphalt stretches out a ribbon gray And I step forward where the shadows play No map is held within my open hand Just this wide sky and this uncharted land I do not run from what the past has brought Nor leave behind the lessons that were taught For every stone of sorrow, sharp and deep Is something that my weary soul must keep The wind will bring its storms to wash me clean Or rain to fill the spaces in between I carry them as travelers carry weight Accepting what is given by the fate Of rising suns and falling evening light I walk alone but never truly tight Against the world or bound by chains of old My story is the road that I unfold So let the burdens rise as clouds appear I'll walk with them until the end is near For destiny is not a place to find But just the path I choose to leave behind	7	The asphalt stretches out like a ribbon of gray And I step forward without asking where the sun will rise today. No map is folded in my pocket, no plan to make or break, Just the hum of tires and the wind that whispers what I choose to take. I carry the heavy stones of yesterday upon my back, The grief that turned to dust, the love that left a crack. They do not weigh me down so much as anchor me to ground, A reminder that the weight I bear is part of what is found. Let the burdens come as clouds that drift across the sky, I will not run from shadow, nor pretend that I am dry. For every tear that falls along this endless, winding line, Is proof that I am walking, proof that I am truly mine. The horizon calls a promise written only for my eyes, To write my own tomorrow beneath these shifting skies. So let the journey twist and turn, let storms roll through the night, I walk with open hands to hold both darkness and the light.	6	The engine hums a quiet tune beneath the rising sun, No written map to fix my path, no final place to run. I turn the wheel toward the mist and let the world unwind, Leaving behind the static noise I'd tangled deep within. I do not pack for what will break, I carry what is now, The weight of yesterday's regret, the sweat upon my brow. If storms roll in across the plain, I'll make them part of me, For burdens are just heavy stones that make the journey deep. Let others chase the promised land where light forever stays, I choose this winding, dusty thread that leads into the haze. My destiny is carved in tire tracks, rewritten every mile, A story written sentence by sentence with each turning trail. So let the rain rewrite my coat, let wind rewrite my song, I walk this open road alone, though wrongs make right so long.	6	The rewrite check polish refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	1
114	ultra_held_out	Chorus of the Captains by Amanda Gorman	Amanda Gorman	"A poem about three American heroes working to benefit their communities and bring the country together during the COVID-19 pandemic."	Today we honor our three captains For their actions and impact in A time of uncertainty and need. They’ve taken the lead, Exceeding all expectations and limitations Uplifting their communities and neighbors As leaders, healers, and educators. James has felt the wounds of warfare, But this warrior still shares His home with at-risk kids. During Covid, he’s event lent a hand, Live-streaming football for family and fans. Trimaine is an educator who works nonstop, Providing his community with hotspots, Laptops, and tech workshops, So his students have all the tools They need to succeed in life and school. Suzie is the ICU nurse manager at a Tampa Hospital. Her chronicles prove that even in tragedy, hope is possible. She lost her grandmothers to the pandemic, And fights to save other lives in the ICU battle zone, Defining the frontline heroes risking their lives for our own. Let us walk with these warriors, Charge on with these champions, And carry forth the call of our captains! We celebrate them by acting With courage and compassion, By doing what is right and just. For while we honor them today, It is them who every day honor us	In a quiet town where silence grew, A nurse named Elena worked to heal the few, She held the hands of those afraid to speak, And found the strength within the weak. Across the state, a farmer named Tom drove his truck, To deliver food to families in luck or lack, He left fresh produce at every door, So no one went hungry on the floor. Then came a teacher, Marcus, with a laptop screen, Who taught the young from a living room scene, He bridged the gap when schools closed tight, And kept the future burning bright. Three different paths but one common goal, To mend the broken and make the spirit whole, They showed that love is stronger than the fear, And brought the nation closer year by year.	In kitchens dipped in sterile white Where Robert tended sick all night He drove his poor关切 Through freezing – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	2	In kitchens where the morning light grew pale A baker fired his ovens through the night To send warm loaves to those who lacked for all And taught his neighbors how to hold on tight He saw no borders drawn by sick or poor Only a table set for everyone Where hunger ended at his kitchen door And solidarity was bought and won Another drove his truck through empty streets With masks and gowns he sourced from far away He worked when others hid behind their sheets To bring protection to the front lines of the fray His hands were rough but touched with tender care As he unloaded boxes in the snow Ensuring every hospital had air And nowhere else was left without a glow Then came a voice that rang from hill to hill Who spoke of science not as distant law But as a bridge to cross our common ill Calling for patience and a loving awe She asked us wash our hands and stay apart Not out of fear but love for whom we knew To mend the tearing fabric of our heart And see ourselves in all who passed us through Three different paths converged in one great road To bear the weight of such a heavy year We lifted up a nation all unloaded By courage clear and strong and always near No hero stands alone among his kin When three such lives are poured in public good The country starts to heal from deep within United by the way we understood That serving others is the only way To walk together through the dark and come Back home again to greet another day As brothers and as sisters all become One people working hard to see it through Three heroes showed the world how love begins When ordinary lives are bent to do What God demands of all who live and win Not glory nor a medal nor a prize But simply being there when darkness falls To open wide our otherwise closed eyes And hear the ringing of community calls From coast to coast the spirit starts to grow Through bread and medicine and words of grace Showing the strength that comes from letting go Of selfishness and finding time and space To be the hand that holds another up During the storm th…	7	In the quiet hours when the world held its breath Three figures moved where the shadows were long One in a white coat, fighting death with a stitch Mending the sick while singing a song Another drove through the rain and the snow With boxes of food for the hungry and poor Leaving no neighbor behind in the cold Opening up every locked kitchen door The third stood tall at the schoolhouse gate Teaching from screens with a voice full of care Showing that learning could happen anywhere Even when classrooms were empty and bare They did not seek glory or medals or fame But worked for the good of the whole and the one Binding the fractures of country and home Until the dark passed and the morning had come Together they showed us the strength of our hands When we reach out to lift up the fallen and weak Proving that love is the language we speak And that healing begins when we choose to be brave Three heroes who taught us how unity saves In the heart of the storm, they kept hope alive For the many, the few, and everyone else Bringing America back to the life we all knew Before the virus tried to tear us apart Now mended by courage and shared working hearts We stand as one people, united and strong Ready to face whatever days may belong To the spirit of service that never grows old A story of three who were brave and were bold Who gave all they had so that none would be lost Counting the cost but refusing the frost Of isolation that sought to divide By offering friendship and staying inside Not to hide from the danger but tend to the need Planting the seeds of a future to feed With kindness as water and patience as sun The work of these heroes was only begun When we see their example in all that we do We know that together we always get through.	7	In a quiet town where silence grew, A nurse in blue kept vigil through the gray, She held the hands of those who came to say Goodbye to loved ones lost to morning dew. Her mask was stained but spirit never bent, She fought the virus with a steady hand, And built a bridge across the sea of sand Where fear and isolation were all that went. Across the state a teacher turned his home Into a classroom bright with digital light, He taught the children how to stay upright When chaos threatened to become their dome. He sent warm words to parents feeling small, He made sure no one slipped behind the door, And proved that learning matters more than evermore, Connecting hearts within each virtual wall. Then came a man who drove a truck at dawn, Through empty highways stretching far and wide, With masks and food he had nowhere to hide The kindness that from every heart was drawn. He dropped off supplies at sheltered doors, He waved to strangers from a safe distance, A simple act of genuine insistence That we are stronger when we share our stores. Three different paths, one purpose clear and true, To heal the wounds that time had not yet mended, Their stories show how love can be extended To make the broken world feel new again. They did not seek a medal or a crown, But worked to bind the fabric of the land, With open arms and an outstretched hand, Bringing the people back together down.	7	In the quiet hum of a city holding its breath, A nurse in scrubs stood guard against the shadow of death, Her hands were tired but her spirit remained unbroken, Healing strangers while her own heart silently spoke. Across the valley where the silence grew deep, A teacher logged on while the world fell asleep, With a screen as a window and a voice full of grace, She kept hope alive for every lost face. Then a farmer drove out to the edge of the town, To drop off fresh food so no one would drown, He left bags at the door with a note that said "share," Proving kindness is all we really need there. Three different paths but one common thread, Of service and love when the light seemed to fade, They stitched up the nation with threads made of care, And showed us together we can still repair.	7	In the quiet hum of a city street, A nurse in blue with weary eyes, She held the hand that feared to meet, And whispered hope beneath gray skies. Across the land where silence grew, A teacher stood with screen and light, Who made the distant lessons true, And kept the future burning bright. Then came the hands that built the wall, With masks and meals for every door, They answered when the people called, To heal the rifts and fix the floor. Three threads woven in time's great loom, Though different paths they chose to tread, They turned the shadows into bloom, And led the weary from the dead. No flag could fly so high or proud, As service given without name, They rose above the fear and cloud, To write a new and stronger frame.	7	In a quiet corner of a bustling town, A nurse in scrubs stood guard against the crown, Her face marked deep beneath a mask so tight, Yet holding hope through every long and sleepless night. Across the state, a teacher turned his screen, To bring the light to kids who could not be seen, He bridged the gap with patience, kind and true, Ensuring no young mind would drift from view. And in the streets where silence filled the air, A volunteer delivered food with care, From door to door he walked without a fear, To make sure neighbors felt that help was near. Though miles apart they served in different ways, They shared one goal to guide us through these days, United hearts within a fractured land, Rebuilding trust with gentle, steady hand.	7	In quiet halls where silence used to reign, A nurse in scrubs held hope against the rain. With mask pulled tight and eyes that gave so deep, She woke the weary while the rest would sleep. Across the street where shadows started long, A teacher typed until the break of dawn. Through static screens she bridged the divide, So no young mind would have to walk alone inside. And deep within a rusting warehouse space, A volunteer with kindness found its place. He packed the boxes, stacked the meal so true, To make sure strangers shared what they could do. No capes required, just hearts beat bold and warm, To keep this fractured land from breaking reform.	7	beneath改写 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewri…	1
130	ultra_held_out	Table Talk by Wallace Stevens	Wallace Stevens	"A poem about contemplating how life's events and preferences are random and ultimately inconsequential, with death being the only certainty."	Granted, we die for good. Life, then, is largely a thing Of happens to like, not should. And that, too, granted, why Do I happen to like red bush, Grey grass and green-gray sky? What else remains? But red, Gray, green, why those of all? That is not what I said: Not those of all. But those. One likes what one happens to like. One likes the way red grows. It cannot matter at all. Happens to like is one Of the ways things happen to fall.	We choose our colors with a trembling hand And argue over shades of blue and red As if the canvas matters to the sand Or how the quiet river fills the bed The taste of coffee, bitter or too sweet The path we walk that leads us nowhere near Are just the echoes of a random beat That fades into the silence of the year No grand design explains why this or that Why one is loved and one is left behind A coin flips high within a cosmic hat And lands on nothing that the mind can find So let us build our castles in the air And claim they stand against the coming tide For death is waiting everywhere With nowhere left for us to run or hide It does not care for what we held so dear The plans we made, the loves we thought were true It simply comes to make the atmosphere Of all our certainty turn into dew In the end the noise becomes a hum The choices blur into a single gray The light goes out before it even comes To take the random dust of life away	We rush to pick a favorite color or Sorge about which door opened thinking the selection mattered that having differed from whom otherwise had all appeared relevant but none selected by selection was ever else but chance then comes the end of all such not very important news for everyone who went else otherwise none selected by selection were else but death that only sure news comes to all else else none selected else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else e…	1	We spend our days selecting tastes from menus none of us invented arguing over shades of blue that nobody else has ever seen while chance deals out the hands with indifferent, shaking fingers who wins a race or who gets sick depends on luck and not on worth we map our lives with rigid lines of joy and grief and sudden loss as if these paths were drawn by gods but really just by tossed-up coins the favorites we hold most dear will seem irrelevant to all when silence comes to claim the room and earth returns its borrowed dust for in the end the only truth is that the heart must stop its beat everything else was passing noise in front of death's inevitable door where all selections come undone and nothing matters but the dark that waits for everyone alike to swallow every choice we made and wash away the trivial that once seemed important then nothing then end then stillness then gone then none then no then now then never then death then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark then all then none then end then still then none then gone then dark …	2	We argue over shades of blue and map our paths with trembling hands, believing every choice we make is drawn by some grand master's plans. But chance is just a spinning wheel that drops the coin and lets it fall, no reason why we love this street or why we hate that distant wall. The joys we clutch and fears we hold are accidents of time and place, a flicker in a vast dark room with no one watching from their space. It matters not if we are kind or cruel, or rich or poor or free, the universe does not record the tiny stories meant to be. For all the noise of living things and all the dreams we try to keep, there waits a silence at the end where even random chances sleep. The only truth we hold so tight is that the breath must leave the lung, the final certainty that comes when all the songs of life are sung.	6	We argue over colors that the wind might choose And build our castles on a shifting sand While chance decides the path we think we chose And pulls the strings of every trembling hand The taste of coffee or the song we hum Are accidents of time and circumstance No grand design to which our spirits come Just rolling dice within a hollow dance We cling to likes as if they mean the world As if our preferences hold weight or power But silence waits behind the final door To sweep away the flower and the tower For all the noise, the love, the hate, the fear Is dust that settles when the breath is gone There is no meaning waiting anywhere Except the dark where everything moves on	6	The coin flips in the air and lands on heads, We build a life around that single chance, Choosing this road or that one instead, While fate rolls dice behind a blindfold dance. The coffee we prefer, the songs we love, Are accidents of taste and shifting light, As random as the clouds above, That vanish by the coming of the night. We argue over things that do not matter, Defend our trivial and fleeting views, Ignoring how the world is just a chatter, Of noise that dies when silence starts to brew. No grand design explains the specific way, We stumbled through the chaos of the years, Just scattered grains of sand at break of day, Dissolving into nothing but our fears. For all the plans we make with such great care, And every preference we hold so dear, They crumble like the windblown dust in air, When death arrives to end the final year. It waits for us without a sound or face, To claim the random choices we have made, The only truth within this empty space, Is that the game will surely fade away.	7	We argue over shades of blue and choose the path we think is true, assigning weight to trivial things, the song that plays, the bird that sings. A coin flips high in empty air, deciding who will win or share, a random spin of fate's dull wheel, with no design to make it real. The love we hold so tight and deep, the promises we mean to keep, are just a flicker in the dark, before the final, silent spark. No grand design for what we do, no reason why we choose this view, just chaos dressed in human guise, beneath the vast and starless skies. For all the noise and frantic race, the time we waste, the lost embrace, one truth remains when lights go low: the quiet end is all we know.	7	We argue over colors of the sky And build our castles on a shifting sand, Unaware that every choice we make, Is just a coin flipped by a blind hand. The coffee we prefer, the road we take, The lovers lost to time and tide, Are random sparks within the dark, With nothing left for us inside. No grand design connects the threads, No meaning woven in the fray, Just chaos dancing through the void, Until the final light decays. For all this noise, this love, this fear, This frantic race to prove we're here, Will fade into the quiet deep, Where silence is the only thing we keep. The only truth the stars can tell, Is written in the cold, still air: That life is but a fleeting breath, And death is waiting everywhere.	6	The coffee stain upon the rug, the specific song that made you weep, the quiet choice of what to wear, are threads within a tapestry so deep. We build our castles out of chance, assigning meaning to the rain, believing patterns make us make, mistaking noise for something plain. Yet whether green is truly green, or blue feels vast beneath the sky, is lost within the turning tide, as shadows shorten, soft and dry. No verdict written in the stone, no final score beneath the sun, just silence waiting at the end, until the random thread is spun. For every preference fades away, each fleeting hope dissolves into mist, leaving only this alone:	6	AI rewrite	7
135	ultra_held_out	The Field of Waterloo by Thomas Hardy	Thomas Hardy	"A poem about little creatures such as rabbits, moles, swallows, and larks suffering and being affected by the horrid atmosphere of a battlefield as warhorses progress across the field, leaving nothing normal again in their wake."	Yea, the coneys are scared by the thud of hoofs, And their white scuts flash at their vanishing heels, And swallows abandon the hamlet-roofs.The mole’s tunnelled chambers are crushed by wheels, The lark’s eggs scattered, their owners fled; And the hedgehog’s household the sapper unseals.The snail draws in at the terrible tread, But in vain; he is crushed by the felloe-rim. The worm asks what can be overhead,And wriggles deep from a scene so grim, And guesses him safe; for he does not know What a foul red flood will be soaking him!Beaten about by the heel and toe Are butterflies, sick of the day’s long rheum, To die of a worse than the weather-foe.Trodden and bruised to a miry tomb Are ears that have greened but will never be gold, And flowers in the bud that will never bloom.	The burrow shakes beneath the hooves of iron As rabbits freeze in tunnels deep and dark No longer safe from fox or winter's chill But trembling at the thunder of the charge The mole forgets the rhythm of the earth When heavy boots crush roots and turn the soil To mud that chokes the quiet, hidden life And leaves no path for tiny paws to roam Above, the swallow dives through smoke and ash Her song replaced by screams of dying men She seeks a branch that once was green and high Now shattered by the falling weight of war The lark ascends but finds no morning light Only a sky choked thick with gray despair Her flight is broken by the clatter close As horses tear the grassy fields apart Nothing remains as it was yesterday The field is scarred, the air is sharp and cold And little creatures flee the endless noise With nowhere left to hide, no home to hold	The rabbits froze in hollow ears pressed flat as killing went then came the shaking of great – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	The little rabbit trembles in the burrow as the heavy earth begins to shake not from spring rain or a passing badger but from the thunder of iron-shod feet that crush the tender shoots of grass where once it gathered clover and dew while far above, the swallow dips only to be struck by the shockwave of shouting men and crashing steel its nest of mud blown from the eaves to tangle in the hair of dying horses who stomp with blind and terrible rage the mole feels the vibration in his dark and curls his nose away from the scent of burning oil and wet copper blood that seeps down through the soil poisoning the roots he loves then comes the lark who tried to sing but found her throat seized by gas or drowned out by the scream of shells as the great warhorses trample on leaving no root unbroken no feather whole no silence returned only the churned and ruined earth where nothing normal grows again nor breathes nor lives in the horrid wake of those who came to kill and killed the very air that held them all before the killing started there now nothing remains but dust and fear and death stamping on for ever more across the field that was once home to all the small and quiet things that had no choice but to end their days beneath the shadows of the great and terrible war that left no trace of spring behind only the memory of what used to be when rabbits ran and moles were blind to pain and birds sang free from man who brought the night down hard and flat upon them all with such a horror none could see coming from the sky or earth or sea or anywhere else at all except right here where they all fell and never got up again to see another day or feel another ray of sun or moon or star or anything else that might have been if only war had never come to steal it all away from everyone who lived there first before the horses came to trample everything that moved or breathed or thought or felt or dreamed of peace or love or joy or any other good thing that war destroyed by being there at all and doing all that bad and evil work o…	2	The burrow shakes before the thunder starts As rabbits freeze in hollows of the earth Their trembling hearts forget the springtime arts Of digging soft and safe from sudden death The mole, who knew the dark as home and friend Now feels the heavy iron crush the ground Where roots once drank the rain and quietly bend Beneath a sky that knows no peace is found Above, the swallows dip in frantic flight Trying to weave through smoke that chokes the air While larks, who sang of morning's golden light Are silenced by the roar of war's despair Then comes the horse, a mountain made of bone With hooves that shatter stone and grass and bone A rolling tide of muscle, sweat, and groan That leaves no seed for any life to own The field is torn where little lives were kept No shelter left for those who hid below The warhorse strides while all the world has wept And turns the green to mud and blood and woe Nothing remains of what was sweet and small Just trampled silence where the birds once called The normal world is broken by the fall Of heavy feet that leave nothing at all	6	The burrow shakes before the thunder starts As rabbits freeze in shadows of the grass Where once they dug their quiet, safe retreats Now iron hooves crush roots and shatter earth The mole who knew the secret paths below Is tossed into the light by shaking ground His dark world shattered by the heavy tread Of warhorses that know no gentle touch Above the churned and sucking mud of death The swallow dips too low to catch a fly Her wings are clipped by smoke that chokes the air While larks who sang of morning's golden dew Are silenced by the scream of falling steel No song remains to mark the turning sky Only the rhythm of the pounding feet That leaves no patch of green or flower whole The field was soft with life and hidden nests Before the cavalry came rolling through Now nothing breathes but dust and fear and pain And all the little creatures lose their home To be swept away beneath the crushing weight Of men on beasts who bring only the end Of every normal thing that used to be Leaving a wasteland where the small ones died	5	The rabbit freezes in the clover deep As thunder shakes the roots beneath its sleep No burrow safe, no shadow left to hide When iron hooves come crashing from the tide The mole who knew the quiet dark so well Feels sudden fire where cool damp tunnels dwell The earth he loved is torn and churned to dust By heavy boots and horses filled with lust Above the swallows dive and frantic cry While smoke obscures the vast and open sky Their nests of mud are scattered by the wind That carries screams of men and dying kin The lark that sang of morning's golden light Is silenced now by chaos and by night Its song replaced by neighs of terrified steeds Who trample down the fragile, living seeds Nothing remains as it was before the fight Just broken stems and shadows in the night The warhorses have passed with heavy tread And left a world where little creatures dread	7	The rabbit trembles in the clover deep, Where silence used to hold the morning light, Now thunder shakes the roots beneath its sleep, And turns the gentle green to shades of night. A mole retreats within its earthen hall, As hooves of iron crush the tunnel's roof, The ground that held it safe begins to fall, Leaving no shelter for the small and proof. High above, the swallow drops its flight, For smoke has choked the air it loved to chase, It seeks a branch that stands against the light, But finds only the scarred and broken space. The lark, who sang of dawn with joyous throat, Is silenced by the drumming of the war, Its song is lost within the rising note Of metal beasts that trample every floor. They pass like storms across the weary plain, With eyes of fire and breath of dust and dread, No flower blooms to soften up their stain, No tiny heart can beat where they have tread. The field is changed forever from this day, No burrow safe, no nest left on the bough, Just shadows cast by horses far away, And creatures wondering what remains now.	7	The rabbit freezes in the clover patch, Its nose a-twitching at the scent of iron, Before the thunder breaks the quiet sky, And hooves come down like hammers on the earth. The mole retreats beneath the tangled roots, But feels the ground convulse with heavy tread, As warhorses march through tunnels deep and dark, Turning safe burrows into crumbling dust. Above, the swallow dives to catch a fly, Yet finds the air is thick with smoke and ash, While larks that sang their morning songs so clear, Are silenced by the clash of steel and fear. The field is torn where gentle paws once ran, No flower blooms within this scarred domain, For where the cavalry has left its wake, Nothing normal stays to breathe again.	6	The clover patch beneath the warhorse's hooves is torn to mud, Where once a rabbit twitched its nose in safety now stands still. The burrow deep where gentle moles made tunnels soft and cool, Is split apart by iron shodding, turning night into day. Above, the swallow dives too low within the choking haze, And strikes the mist of gunpowder that stains the morning blue. The lark, who sang so high above the green and quiet field, Is silenced by the thunder that makes the rafters shake. No bud will bloom this season on the ground so deeply scarred, For what was left for little wings is scattered, lost, and gone. The rhythm of the heavy draft creates a final drum, That beats until the heartbeat stops within each tiny chest.	6	beneath rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite…	1
142	ultra_held_out	Postfeminism by Brenda Shaughnessy	Brenda Shaughnessy	A poem about exploring the contrasting roles and divisions between people, spinning off from opposing archetypes to examine the different ways of addressing life through complicated and multilayered images.	There are two kinds of people, soldiers and women, as Virginia Woolf said. Both for decoration only. Now that is too kind. It’s technical: virgins and wolves. We have choices now. Two little girls walk into a bar, one orders a shirley temple. Shirley Temple’s pimp comes over and says you won’t be sorry. She’s a fine piece of work but she don’t come cheap. Myself, I’m in less fear of predators than of walking around in my mother’s body. That’s sneaky, that’s more than naked. Let’s even it up: you go on fuming in your gray room. I am voracious alone. Blank and loose, metallic lingerie. And rare black-tipped cigarettes in a handmade basket case. Which of us weaves the world together with a quicker blur of armed seduction: your war-on-thugs, my body stockings. Ascetic or carnivore. Men will crack your glaze even if you leave them before morning. Pigs ride the sirens in packs. Ah, flesh, technoflesh, there are two kinds of people. Hot with mixed light, drunk on insult. You and me.	Some build their homes from iron and the weight of measured stone While others sleep beneath the willow's breath in moss and unknown rain One walks a path of straight lines drawn with ink that never fades The other drifts on shifting sands where every footprint is erased The architect counts bricks to find the truth within the wall The poet listens for the silence that the mortar cannot hold They speak different languages of time, of speed, of deep delay One sees the clock as master, one sees it as a game to play In the kitchen of the world, the baker kneads the heavy dough To feed the hungry mouth with bread that rises, firm and slow But the gardener tends the wild vine that climbs the fence unseen And offers fruit that tastes of storm and shadows, green and lean There are those who guard the gate with keys of brass and rust Who fear the open door more than the lock inside the dust While others leave the hinges loose, inviting wind and ghost To sweep through empty rooms where nothing but the light is lost Two rivers run beside each other, one clear and cold and deep The other muddy, churning fast with secrets it must keep They do not mix until the sea, where salt dissolves the line And the diver and the sailor both forget which hand was mine We are the hammer and the anvil, the spark and the coal The rigid spine of order, the fluid soul of control Yet in the mirror's fractured glass, we see the other face A shadow cast by our own light, a stranger in the place	Some were born to hammer iron setting teeth of_EDGE against else while others were always liquid holding no edge only the curvature of otherwise one counts by blocks that never quite fit blocking out sky block by block to map dominion where size equals sense else who measure by current by rush by why it went from source not storage but travel asking not for firm foot not anchorman or chief of mine but who know water returns then returns again drawing all sharp edges back to flat confused by straight lines that cut hair none else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else els…	1	One walks with a lantern of hammered copper casting sharp edges on the gravel road while another carries a sieve of spider-silk catching only the dust that falls from the stars the first counts every step by the weight of his boots the second measures distance by the breath between heartbeats one builds a wall from bricks of frozen silence to keep the wolf of doubt from eating the hearth the other digs a trench in the garden of memory to drown the weeds of certainty in liquid time they meet at the bridge where the river forks not to argue about which bank holds the truth but to watch how the water splits and rejoins carrying both the stone thrown by anger and the leaf tossed by laughter down the same dark mouth where all definitions dissolve into the rushing, indifferent white of a world that asks for neither the hammer nor the hand only the motion of falling or flying or simply being held by both at once before the next foot touches down on the unknown earth that asks no questions of who we were when we started walking away from each other to learn why we had to part in order to know that the map was never flat but always rolling like a serpent eating its own tail of shadows and light interwoven in the hair of every living thing that dares to breathe between the two poles of our dividing sky where night is not an enemy of day but its secret partner holding hands behind closed curtains of cloud waiting for the sun to burn off the edge of reason and let the madness of beauty creep back in through the cracks in all our armor of logic and dream wearing different masks but sharing the same aching chin that aches for something more than selection more than choice more than the hard binary of win or lose when life is just the rich confusion of having both hands full of water that cannot be held by either palm alone but must spilled out onto the ground to feed the roots of both trees that grow up from the same dark rich mud of not knowing which way is up when gravity itself has begun to laugh at our serious definitions …	2	One walks with boots of iron, measuring the earth in straight and rigid lines, while the other drifts on a raft of woven reeds, tracing the river's erratic breath. The first builds walls to hold back the tide, cataloging every drop in jars of glass, the second dips a cup into the surge, drinking the salt and the unknown together. We are the architects of order, laying bricks of logic in the freezing dark, and we are the gardeners of chaos, planting seeds that grow only when ignored. Some speak in the sharp click of a lock, seeking the key that fits the single tumblers, others hum a low note that shakes the foundation, opening doors where no hinges were ever placed. There is the hand that holds the scalpel, cutting away the excess to reveal the bone, and the hand that offers the balm, smearing the wound until it becomes a map. One counts the stars to know their distance, calculating the cold mathematics of light, the other looks up and sees a story, where constellations are merely characters in a play. Between the hammer and the loom, between the ledger and the diary, we stretch ourselves thin across the divide, trying to be both the shelter and the storm, holding the weight of the world in one palm while letting the wind slip through the fingers of the other. No single path can carry all the heavy truths, so we walk side by side, one looking at the ground to see the roots, the other looking at the sky to see the birds, both necessary for the tree to reach its height.	6	One walks with a lantern made of glass To catch the falling dust of stars While the other wears armor forged from silence And counts the cracks in every wall they pass The gardener plants seeds in frozen ground Believing spring is just a matter of time The architect draws blueprints on the wind Constructing towers that have no bottom or top line They meet at the edge of a river that flows backward Where the water remembers being rain One tries to drink from a cup of broken mirrors The other builds a dam to hold back the pain There are those who speak in riddles of fire Who burn the bridge before crossing it whole And those who weave nets from spider silk To catch the whispers of a distant soul The clockmaker measures seconds in blood While the painter mixes colors from grief Both search for the same hidden door But one knocks with a fist and the other weaves a leaf In the kitchen of the world, salt and sugar sit apart One preserving the fruit, the other sweetening the decay We are all both the storm and the shelter The heavy anchor and the sail that slips away	6	One builds the wall with bricks of silence while the other paints the gate in shouting gold, a fortress rising from the bedrock of the unspoken against a city built on stories told too loud. The archer draws the bowstring tight with rigid spine aiming for a single point of perfect stillness, whereas the dancer spins in chaotic loops trying to catch the wind that never stays. We are the mason and the river, the one who sets the stone to hold the earth, the one who wears the valley down to dust, both necessary, both forever at war. Some wear armor made of heavy logic to deflect the arrows of the irrational heart, while others swim in tides of raw sensation drowning in the very currents they claim to love. There is the gardener who prunes the wild growth seeking order in the tangled green, and the arsonist who feeds the hungry flame to see what blooms from ash and sudden light. They meet in the middle where the shadows lengthen neither conqueror nor conquered, just two hands clasping the same complex, fractured thing that breaks the mirror but holds the whole reflection.	6	The architect builds walls to keep the storm inside While the river erodes the foundation with a whisper, One counts the bricks in rigid rows of gray and white, The other measures depth by how the silt will rise. We are split between the hand that holds the scalpel tight And the mouth that sings the fever into calm, A surgeon stitching silence into open wounds, A bard unraveling threads until the pattern breaks. Some walk the wire strung across the canyon's throat, Balancing on tension, fearing the drop below, While others dive beneath the surface without breath, Letting the pressure crush the lungs to find the pearl. The clockmaker winds the gears to force the sun to rise, Ignoring how the light spills through the cracks it made, The gardener waits for rain that never comes as planned, Accepting weeds as flowers in the tangled shade. One writes the law in ink that dries before it speaks, Defining lines where shadows blur and merge, The other paints the fog until the border disappears, Dissolving boundaries into mist and memory. We argue over maps drawn by those who never left, While travelers lose their way to find a different north, The fortress stands against the tide with stone and pride, The boat drifts with the current, trusting only water. Perhaps the division is a mirror cracked in two, Reflecting half a face that cannot see the whole, Until the wall dissolves into the river's flow, And the surgeon learns to sing while holding up the knife.	6	The architect builds walls of glass to keep the storm inside, While the gardener lets the ivy strangle the foundation stone. One counts the bricks with fingers stained by mortar and by math, The other waits for rain to write a script upon the bone. We split the sky between the hawk that circles high and cold, And roots that drink the dark beneath where no sun dares to go. The captain charts a course through fog with compasses of gold, The sailor learns to float on tides that rise and ebb below. Some speak in sharp commands to carve the river into canals, While others whisper to the silt until it turns to sand. A fortress stands against the tide with iron gates and halls, A reed bends low to let the water pass across the land. The mirror reflects only what is polished, clean, and bright, The prism breaks the single beam into a fractured hue. One seeks the center point where light collapses into night, The other chases colors that the shadows make anew. So we divide the human heart into the shield and spear, The heavy plow that turns the soil and wings that cut the air. Yet in the space between the fear and hope, the calm and dear, The threads entangle so tightly that no single role can spare.	6	One builds the tower stone by stone until the shadow swallows the sun, While the other weaves a net beneath the tide to catch what is unraveling. The architect speaks in right angles and rigid plans that break against the wind, The drifter hums a tune without melody that changes shape with every turn. You carve your name into the granite so time might remember you exist, I write my story on mist so it can rewrite itself before dawn breaks. We stand on opposite banks of a river that reflects no single face, You polish the lens until clarity distorts into blinding light, I adjust the focus until the world becomes soft, blurred, and kind. Your hand holds the chisel that creates boundaries between us, My palm is open, holding rain that erases the line where we divide. So let the fortress rise above the canyon's deep and echoing throat, And let the forest reclaim the path that leads into the quiet dark, For safety is a cage crafted with perfect, unyielding bars, And freedom is a storm that reshapes the coast without apology.	5	The sculptor chisels silence into polish write refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite re…	1
146	ultra_held_out	The Witch’s Life by Anne Sexton	Anne Sexton	A poem about a speaker aging into the very "witch" she once misunderstood as a child, coming to embrace a hermit's life of overwhelming memories while choosing to carry on despite life's dreamlike uncertainties.	When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her. My shoes turn up like a jester's. Clumps of my hair, as I write this, curl up individually like toes. I am shoveling the children out, scoop after scoop. Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins. Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup? Maybe I have plugged up my sockets to keep the gods in? Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin. Yes. It is the witch's life, climbing the primordial climb, a dream within a dream, then sitting here holding a basket of fire.	I used to fear the woman in the woods with eyes like cracked obsidian and hands that smelled of rain, thinking her solitude was a cage she built for herself. Now the mirror shows those same deep lines and I understand the silence was not empty, but heavy with every ghost I ever knew. The house is full of whispers now, a library of moments I cannot burn or bury, and the world outside has blurred into a watercolor haze. They call it madness when the past walks through the door, but I have learned to brew tea for them instead. The path is foggy, the future a dream I wake from daily, yet I sweep the porch and tend the garden roots, choosing to stay in this quiet magic where the only spell left is the courage to endure.	Little children threw pennins Calling her wicked hair Called her worse Screaming monsters Overlooking How much she knew About killing Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edw…	1	I once ran screaming from the woman who lived in the crooked house on the hill whose hair was a tangle of winter ivy and whose hands smelled of burnt sage thinking her isolation was a punishment for knowing things she had not been taught but time is a slow editor that cuts away the edges of who we were to fit us all back together now I sit by the window watching dust motes dance like spirits while the library of my head overflows with books nobody else opened the neighbors call it madness or perhaps just age but it feels more like returning home to a room where everyone lives who ever loved or hurt me all talking at once in a language only memory understands sometimes the future looks like a dream you cannot quite recall waking up to questions without answers where did the years go why does the road look different from here but the tea is hot and the kettle sings and though the shadows stretch long across the floor I will not hide nor beg for sympathy from those who still fear the unknown instead I brush off the hem of my dress which has grown heavy as earth and step out not to bewitch but simply to be one who knows that even in the strangest hours there is a way to keep walking toward the next strange beautiful morning that waits just beyond the edge of sight where nothing is certain except the breath drawing near again and again and again until it stops only then will we know if it was ever more than a dream at all but for now there is work to do among the ghosts who call me by my real name at last calling home to the witch who was always here waiting to begin to live rather than end by being understood by none but self who knows that memory is not a curse but the only map we have left to follow through the dark that opens up to stars that were never gone but only hidden behind our ears when we were children too afraid to listen to the wind that whispers of coming back to start over once more with hands that know how to hold both joy and grief without letting go of either quite yet not quite ready to say goodby…	2	I used to fear the woman in the hollowed oak who gathered roots and whispered to the wind a monster with a crooked spine and eyes that saw the secrets of the sleeping child I ran away from shadows on the wall and prayed for sunlight that was bright and clear but time has turned the pages of my skin to map the very lines I once denied Now I am she, the hermit of the hill with hair like frost and hands that know the earth the memories are heavy as a stone they flood the room when silence starts to speak of lovers lost and seasons long since past a library of grief I cannot burn yet in this cluttered, dreamlike uncertainty where edges blur and morning looks like night I choose to stay and tend the dying fire The world outside is strange and shifting ground a fever dream where logic loses hold but here within my cabin made of doubt I brew the tea of all I have endured no longer running from the witch's face I see her wisdom in the creaking door and carry on through all the unknown hours embracing every ghost that walks the floor for life is not a straight and certain road but wild and winding, strange and wonderfully deep and I am home at last among the strange holding the weight of all I cannot forget and walking forward into what comes next.	3	I once ran from the woman in the crooked house who whispered to the wind and burned sage for rain thinking her solitude was a cage of shadows that I would never have to enter. Now the mirror holds that same sharp chin and eyes that have watched too many seasons turn while the world outside my door forgets my name. The memories are not ghosts but heavy stones piled high in a room where no one visits overflowing with laughter lost and promises broken a library of dust that only I can read. They called it madness then, this retreat from noise but now I see it as the only way to hold the weight of all the years that slipped through fingers like water or smoke or a dream you cannot catch. The future is a fog that shifts with every breath a story without an ending written in invisible ink yet I light the candle anyway and brew the tea for there is no other path but this one forward into the quiet, into the strange, into the self where the witch and the child finally meet and bow to the beautiful, terrible certainty of being here.	2	I once ran from the cottage in the woods With eyes wide at the crooked spine and gray, Thinking her magic was a curse of bad luck, A warning to the light of midday play. Now mirror glass reflects that same bent frame, The hair unbound like smoke against the sky, And I have learned the silence is not empty, But full of ghosts who never say goodbye. The memories arrive like heavy rain, Soaking into floors I swept too long ago, A thousand faces pressing at the door, Of love and loss I thought I'd let them know. They call it madness, this hermit's quiet life, To sit alone and watch the seasons turn, But in this dream where time begins to blur, I find the lessons that I needed learn. No longer fear the shadow on the wall, Or what the neighbors whisper through the pane, For I am both the child who fled the dark And now the woman walking in the rain. The world feels thin as parchment, soft and strange, Where waking up is just another sleep, Yet still I brew the tea and tend the fire, And promise all my broken self to keep. So let them call me witch or wild or old, I wear the name like armor made of stone, Carrying the weight of every yesterday Into a future I must face alone. The uncertainty is vast and deep and blue, A sea without a shore or guiding star, But I will walk the path until the end, And be exactly who I always are.	6	I used to fear the woman in the woods with eyes like cracked glass and a voice of dry leaves, thinking her solitude was a punishment for something wrong. Now the mirror shows that same strange face, the silver threading through hair I once called gray, and I realize the spell was not on her, but on my own small heart. The cottage is quiet now, filled with ghosts I know by name, a library of moments stacked against the wall where shadows dance. They are overwhelming, these memories that refuse to fade, whispering of summers lost and loves turned into dust. I am the hermit they warned me about, yet I find no regret here, only the heavy, sweet weight of having lived so long. Outside, the world spins in a dream I can no longer quite recall, fog rolling in to blur the line between what was and what might be. But I will light the fire anyway, though the smoke chokes the air, and brew the tea that tastes of rain and old regrets. I carry on because the uncertainty is just another kind of magic, and I have finally learned to trust the witch I became.	3	I used to fear the cottage deep within the pines, Where shadows danced and whispered names I could not know, And thought the woman with the tangled, silver hair Was made of smoke and malice, something cold to flee. Now mirrors show that face is mine alone, The same wild tangle framing eyes grown dim, I walk the path I once ran from in haste, To find the quiet that the forest keeps. My shelves are stacked with ghosts I cannot burn, Each memory a heavy stone I choose to hold, A hermit's life where time has lost its shape, And dreams dissolve like mist beneath the sun. The world outside is strange, a shifting blur, Where truth and fiction weave a tangled thread, Yet I will brew my tea and watch the rain, And carry on this weight I call my own.	5	I used to run beneath the fence, clutching my mother's skirt so tight, Terrified of the shadowy shape within the tangled birch, A crone with eyes like polished obsidian and a crooked staff, Who whispered spells that turned the milk to rust. Now the mirror holds that same deep polish in my gaze, And I find myself alone upon this drafty threshold stone, No wand required to make the fire burn cold against the rain, Just quiet rooms where dust motes dance like forgotten ghosts. The memories rise now without check, a tide inside the chest, Of faces lost, of promises unravelled into mist, I am the keeper now of keys I do not use, the guardian of silence, This hermit's crown is woven from what time has left behind. Yet though the fog rolls thick across the valley of tomorrow, And makes the path ahead dissolve into a silver haze, I will write my name upon the wind until it fades again, For even witches make their coffee in the light.	2	rewrite	1
151	train	Risk by Anaïs Nin	Anaïs Nin	A poem about striving toward change and growth when pushing against conflict and turmoil.	And then the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.	The wind howls loud against the door And shakes the frame of what was sure Yet in the chest a quiet spark Refuses to surrender dark We plant our feet on shifting sand With trembling hands and steady hand For every storm that tears the ground Is where new roots are finally found The clash of waves may break the stone But shapes the cliff we call our own No path is smooth, no sky is clear When fear demands that we should steer But forward is the only way To turn the night into the day Through friction born of broken things A stronger self begins to sing	The road inclines not by appetite but by the grinding of teeth that otherwise went nowhere else to hide from the coming edge of self that must outlive its source of joy by bearing all that otherwise kills it before it knows its size or shape etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc et…	1	The wind howls hard against the door And shakes the hinges on the wood But I have learned to stand much more When all seems bad and none seems good For roots grow deep in rocky soil Not where the earth is soft and flat They seek a harder, sturdier toil To anchor life from all of that The storm may tear the leaves away And strip the branches bare and brown But spring returns to start the day And lift the fallen things back down It hurts to stretch when muscles ache To force a path through blocking stone Yet every step we bravely take Builds strength that only pain has known So let the tempest rage and roar We plant our feet and reach for light Finding who we were before In battles fought throughout the night Growth comes not from easy days But from the wars we win inside Where courage burns and doubt betrays And nothing ever gets denied We push against the heavy gray And find ourselves emerging whole Having survived another day With newly strengthened heart and soul No shelter hides from coming rain Only the spirit learns to fly Through sorrow's dark and joyous gain Beneath the vast and open sky The conflict teaches us to see That we are far more strong than fear A version of ourselves to be Who knows exactly who they are And walks ahead with steady hand Toward a world we have not seen Where peace begins to firmly stand On ground that once was sharp and keen We strive and strain and never stop Until the edge of self is crossed Then rise again when darkness drops Counting up everything we lost Only to realize it grew As fuel for fire burning bright Showing all the work we knew Was worth the battle in the night Push forward though the road is steep And broken stones cut at your skin There are promises to keep Beyond the chaos and the din Embrace the friction as it comes Like grinding wheel on sharpened blade Listening closely to the drums Of triumph in the mess we made This turmoil shapes the clay of man Before the kiln of time sets firm Drawing up an inner plan From out the dust and sudden squirm We grow by fightin…	7	The wind howls sharp against the windowpane And shakes the roots that hold us to the ground While chaos tries to break the fragile chain Of all the peace we thought we had found Yet in the shaking of the trembling earth A seed decides it will not stay asleep It knows the weight of winter and its dearth But feels a promise that the dark must keep We push back hard against the rising tide With hands that bleed from fighting tooth and nail But in the struggle something grows inside That makes the broken spirit strong and pale For growth is not a quiet, gentle stream But fire forged in conflict's burning heart It is the waking of a violent dream Where tearing down becomes the start of art So let the storm rage on and tear the sky We stand unmoved by all the noise and fear Because the change we seek begins to fly When every doubt and enemy draws near The turmoil breaks the shell to set it free And from the ruin rises something new A stronger self who learned to disagree With everything that tried to stop the view Of mountains climbed when all was steep and rough Of roads walked through when all the paths were closed This is the way the light gets in enough To show the beauty in the things we most opposed We do not run from conflict or from pain But walk right through the fire to find the gold To wash away the dust of old disdain And see a story that is yet untold The war outside may never cease to roar But peace within can grow where none has been By opening up the locked and heavy door And letting in the world we have not seen So let it shake and tremble and collide We are the garden growing in the stone With nowhere left for silence to hide And nothing else to fight but being alone Then finding company in every scar In every bruise that marks the path ahead We know exactly who and what we are And why the road of growth must be unsaid Until the shouting fades and leaves us clear To hear the quiet voice that says begin To love the struggle and the coming year And let the change take root beneath the skin No longer fig…	7	The wind howls loud against the door And shakes the hinges of the floor Yet in the chest a quiet spark Defies the gathering, heavy dark We plant our feet on shifting sand With trembling hands and open hand To build a bridge across the rage That turns the page to every age It hurts to stretch when bones are tight To seek the dawn inside the night But roots grow deep where storms have torn And new life blooms from seeds that were born So let the chaos crash and roar We walk ahead toward something more Not fleeing from the broken ground But finding peace within the sound	7	The wind howls loud against the windowpane And shakes the roots that hold us to the ground While chaos tries to break the fragile chain Of all the quiet things we have not found Yet in the storm a single green shoot rises Through cracks of stone where darkness used to dwell It does not fear the thunder or the surprises But learns to bend and stretch toward the spell Of light that waits beyond the heavy gray Where conflict tears the fabric of the air We walk the path that leads us far away From every shadow of despair and care For growth is not a gentle, soft retreat But standing firm when everything falls down It is the rhythm of our own heartbeat That turns the rubble into fertile ground	7	The wind howls loud against the fragile door And storms that break the ground beneath our feet Demand we turn and run from what is sore Yet in this chaos, roots begin to meet We do not seek the quiet of the calm But stand within the fire to forge a new A steady hand amidst the rising alarm To build a sky where broken clouds renew For growth is not a gentle, soft descent But climbing up when gravity pulls down It is the moment that the will is spent Yet finds the strength to wear a heavier crown So let the thunder shake the walls we made Let conflict test the mortar and the stone We walk through shadows into light unswayed And claim the seed that turbulence has sown	7	The wind howls through the cracks of what remains And tears the fragile threads we tried to weave, Yet in the chaos where the storm sustains, A quiet root begins to softly cleave. We walk across the glass that breaks beneath our feet, Where shadows fight the light with sharpened claws, But every step is proof of something sweet, That grows despite the silence and the flaws. Do not fear the fire that tests the iron will, For change is forged within the burning heat, The calm you seek is built on shifting skill, To stand upon the ground beneath your feet. Though turmoil tries to pull the foundation down, And doubt whispers that you should turn away, You wear the scars like armor, crown by crown, Until the breaking turns into the day.	6	The wind does not ask the stone to break, Yet breaks continue until cracks run deep. I carve my name into the shifting tide, Against the foam that tries to erase what I write. 每一步 make progress is a quiet fight, A whisper against the thunder's might. Though shadows pull and chaos rewrite the plan, I stand within the gap where light can expand. Growth is not a gentle bloom above, But roots that split the rock beneath.	6	The polish breaks beneath the rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite re…	1
153	train	If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda	Pablo Neruda	A poem about a speaker reminding his lover of their intense romantic love while warning her that if she stops loving him he will cease to love her in return.	I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.	Remember how the fire burned between us, A blaze that turned the winter into spring, Where every glance was a vow unspoken, And silence sang the loudest song we knew. But know this truth as clearly as you breathe: That flame is fed by two, not one alone. If you should turn your face away from me, And let the embers cool within your chest, Then I will not beg for warmth again. The love you gave so freely will be mine no more, For what is shared can also be withdrawn. If you stop loving me, I cease to love you.	Recall the fever in our blood How all else grew pale and poor Before such wonder entered Otherwise barren earth Only mine yours Invoking gods of sudden ardor Who barred all other ways But know well That passion lives as hair Selected from nowhere Selected back If your affection slips Mine returns Not killed Returning Returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned returned r…	2	Do you know how fiercely I have burned Since the first breath we drew as one? My heart is not a passive house Where any visitor may come To sit awhile and then depart Leaving no mark upon the wall It was built from your image Raised by yours and none else's call But listen closely to this truth That hangs between our trembling hands If ever that great flame goes out If you withhold the love demanded Then mine returns to ash and dust Not out of spite but simple law For in your stopping lies my end A dead man loving none who saw Return your affection or be free From all the vows we ever spoke I cannot hold a hollow space Nor tend a garden grown of smoke Love lives while both sides ardently Reach out and seize the other whole Withdraw your hand and mine withdraws Like winter killing autumn's soul We are a single burning thing That dies if either stops the fuel So keep your heart locked firmly on Or watch it all grow cold and dull There is no middle ground for us No half-way house for two who were Only the fullness of our fire Or total silence everywhere Choose well, my love, and choose today Before the edge begins to fall For once you stop loving me There will be nobody left at all Who cares enough to mourn your going Or wonder where the passion went Because when yours begins to fade Mine follows instantly and bent Back to the earth from whence it came Unmoved by guilt or memory You taught me how to love so hard You also taught me how to be Indifferent if you should look away And see another in his stead The very same intense devotion Returns to nothing if yours is dead Keep loving me with all your might Or watch the universe grow dark As suddenly as sudden death Without a warning or a spark We are defined by mutual sight Two stars that only shine when near Block out your light and mine must fail Disappearing from the hemisphere Nothing remains but empty air When two such passions part ways One kills the other instantly A suicide of sorts Where neither gets to live happily Unless they stay exactly as They are right …	6	Remember how the air grew thick with us Before a single word was ever spoken How every breath we drew was yours and mine A fire that burned so bright it left no room for doubt But hear this truth as clearly as you heard my heart If you should turn your back and let that flame go out The cold will rush in where our passion used to be And I, who loved you with such fierce devotion Will simply stop For love like ours demands a living spark Not one half-dead or dying on the vine If you withdraw your hand from mine Then mine shall fall away from yours And silence will be all that remains between us No anger, no regret Just the empty space where we once were So hold on tight to what we built Or watch it vanish when you choose to leave For I will not love a ghost Only the woman who loves me back.	6	Remember how the fire burned between us How every breath we took was shared and whole When I looked at you, the world dissolved And nothing mattered but your beating soul But know this truth before you turn away That love is not a well that never runs dry It is a mirror held up to the day Reflecting only what is cast inside If you withdraw the light and let it fade If silence grows where once our voices rang Then I will be the shadow of the shade And all these burning words will go unsung For I have loved you with a fierce devotion But should your heart stop beating for my name I will withdraw my own without emotion And leave you with the ashes of our flame Do not mistake my passion for a chain That binds me if your spirit chooses flight My love is yours as long as yours remains But vanishes the moment you take flight So hold me close and never let me go Or watch the man who worshipped you disappear For when your love begins to ebb and flow Mine ends exactly where your heart ceases here	7	Do you remember how the fire burned Before the first word was ever spoken? How our hearts beat in a single rhythm Leaving no space for doubt or silence? I still hold that heat within my chest A blazing sun that only you could wake. But listen closely to this truth I speak: If you let that light fade from your eyes, If you turn away and let the cold take hold, Then I will not chase a ghost of what we were. The moment your love ceases to exist, Mine will follow it into the dark. We are bound by a mirror's sharp reflection; Break the glass on your side, and mine shatters too.	6	Do you remember how the fire burned Before we spoke a single word, How every glance was a promise kept And silence was the sweetest heard? I gave you all my breath and bone, A kingdom built on just your name, But know this truth beneath the throne: My heart is not a constant flame. If you should turn your face away, And let the cold wind blow between, The light I hold will fade to gray, And what was love will cease to be. For I am made of what you give, A mirror that reflects your gaze; If you stop loving me to live, Then I shall vanish in your haze. So hold me close with fierce intent, Or watch the ocean drain to sand, For once the final bond is spent, No ghost remains within my hand.	7	Remember how the fire burned so bright That we forgot the cold existed in the night, How every breath I took was yours to keep, And every promise made was carved so deep. But hear this truth beneath the song we sing: This love is not a chain that binds my wing. If you withdraw the warmth you give today, The light within my chest will fade away. For what I feel is vast and pure and true, Yet mirrors only what I find in you. So if your heart should turn and walk alone, My own will cease to beat for flesh and bone.	6	Remember how the fire caught beneath our skin, How every glance rewrote the turning tide, I gave you everything until I'd give my end within, With no reserve and nothing left to hide. But know this truth as deep within your chest: This flame is mirrored, fueled by what you give, So if you turn away and let us rest, The ghost of me will make this vessel leave. For love is not a chain that binds alone, It is a mirror reflecting what we make, If silence breaks the tone we've always known, Then I will cease to break, to wake, to take.	7	I rewrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write writ…	1
161	ultra_held_out	You Begin by Margaret Atwood	Margaret Atwood	"A poem about a child beginning to learn and discover the world through their hand, their eye, and the words and colours that anchor them to life's beginnings and endings."	You begin this way: this is your hand, this is your eye, that is a fish, blue and flat on the paper, almost the shape of an eye. This is your mouth, this is an O or a moon, whichever you like. This is yellow. Outside the window is the rain, green because it is summer, and beyond that the trees and then the world, which is round and has only the colors of these nine crayons. This is the world, which is fuller and more difficult to learn than I have said. You are right to smudge it that way with the red and then the orange: the world burns. Once you have learned these words you will learn that there are more words than you can ever learn. The word hand floats above your hand like a small cloud over a lake. The word hand anchors your hand to this table, your hand is a warm stone I hold between two words. This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world, which is round but not flat and has more colors than we can see. It begins, it has an end, this is what you will come back to, this is your hand.	The small hand reaches out to grasp the air And finds the roughness of a wooden chair A texture mapped against the skin so new Where touch becomes the first way to be true Then eyes awake to catch the morning light That splits the gray and paints the world in white They watch the dust that dances in the beam And learn that life is made of what we see But words arrive like seeds upon the breeze To name the rustling leaves and swaying trees They anchor down the moments as they pass Between the birth cry and the final gasp And colours bloom to mark the start and end The red of blood, the green where roots descend A spectrum woven through the tiny frame That holds the wonder of this fleeting game	First comes the hand that reaches out to grab a slippery edge of morning light then opens fingers to surprise by killing not killing but holding all things that otherwise must slip away Next comes the watching sharp and new drawing lines from hair of grass to edge of nowhere not knowing edge comes next opens mouth to taste big hard edges of news about why things appear then hide behind ears or else went else went else went etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etcet…	1	A small hand reaches out to touch the rough edge of a table feeling the grain of wood and the shock of cold metal before learning that some things are sharp and some are soft that life begins in texture and ends when fingers slip away from all they tried to hold Then comes the eye wide open to the sudden sweep of morning light watching how dust motes dance in a shaft of yellow how a bird flies up then vanishes behind a leaf seeing beginnings everywhere in the way a flower opens and endings in the falling of a dead autumn leaf that curls and turns to brown while wondering where it went to hide from sight The world grows larger when names are spoken when "tree" and "sky" and "mother" anchor thought to things that otherwise might slip like water through an opening palm and colours rush in next red for danger blue for sadness green for growing all the shades of joy that wash over early days painting lines on blank white pages where stories start and sometimes stop with nothing more than a drawn breath or a silent page that waits for hands for eyes for words to say it was it is it will be again and then no more just colour fading out of sight back into white once more as life returns to begin again by touch by look by sound of names we know by heart before we go away to sleep or else to stay awake and see the world un fold its map of edges sharp and soft of colours bright and dull of words that start and end like days that rise and set on hands that reach out far to grab at everything that passes by and calls us home to learn it all an ew a gain and then to say good bye to all we held so long be fore we went to look for new de part ures else where where hands will not be needed to hold on tight but only eyes to see the whole of things that were and are and always will be there in colour and in word and space be tween the start and end of all we call our own to day to night to mor row when we wake up one last time to see the sun come up and real ize that we have seen it all be fore and now we close our eyes and let i…	2	The small palm opens wide to catch the falling dust And learns the weight of air and warmth of summer light It touches bark that roughens skin with ancient stories And finds the softness hidden in a petal's edge Then eyes grow large to drink the sudden rush of blue To track the bird that dips and turns against the sky To see the way the shadow stretches long and thin As day begins its slow retreat from morning gold From these bright anchors words emerge like seeds taking root A name for red, a sound for water rushing near They build a bridge between the silence and the shout Between the first sharp cry and the final quiet breath Colours bloom to mark the start and seal the close Of every moment held within a trembling hand That holds the world together as it starts to spin Before the knowing comes and after all is said The eye returns to rest upon the dark and deep While memory keeps the hue of life's beginning end Anchored by the touch that started all the way By sight that saw the sun and language learned by heart To say we were here once before we went away	6	Small fingers reach to touch the roughness of the bark And feel the pulse of life beneath the winter cold A hand that learns the weight of stone and feather light To know the world by texture, warmth, and hold Then eyes grow wide to catch the shifting dance of blue Where morning breaks in gold and evening fades to gray They watch the clouds drift slow across the endless space And see the start of things and how they slip away Soon words arrive like birds that land upon a branch To name the wind, the rain, the sorrow, and the joy Each syllable a bridge between the silence and the sound That holds the child when chaos tries to destroy And colours bloom to map the path from first to last The red of blood, the green of grass, the white of snow These anchors bind the spirit to the earth it walks From where the story starts to where the rivers go	6	Small fingers trace the rough edge of a leaf And learn the texture of the wind before it blows The eye opens wide to catch the morning gold A sudden spark that turns the gray to green First comes the word, a soft and stumbling sound That names the cup, the chair, the falling rain Then comes the color, bright as summer fruit To paint the dark with red and yellow light These anchors hold the child when shadows grow long When the day must end and silence fills the room For in the touch, the sight, the spoken name We find the start and what will come to pass	6	The small hand reaches out to grasp the air And finds a rough and textured world within its palm Where dust motes dance in shafts of morning light And smooth stone holds the memory of rain The eye expands to swallow up the sky A vast and shifting canvas painted blue It tracks the flight of birds that carve the wind And learns the heavy silence of the trees Then words arrive like seeds dropped on the soil To name the things the fingers touch and eyes behold They build a bridge from nothing into something real And tie the heart to moments passing fast Through red and gold and deep and endless green The colors mark the start of every day And guide the way toward the quiet end As life begins and ends within this frame	6	The small hand reaches out to touch the rough bark, Feeling the pulse of life beneath the skin, While eyes wide open catch the shifting light, And learn the shape of where the world begins. A word is spoken, soft and warm and new, Anchoring the moment in a gentle sound, As colors bloom like rain upon the dew, Connecting what is lost to what is found. From first bright red to shadows deep and gray, The journey starts within this tiny frame, To trace the path that leads us far away, Yet keeps us close to life's eternal game. So hand and eye and voice will hold the thread, Between the start and finish, brief and sweet, Where every color paints the words we said, And make the ending feel just like the start.	7	Small fingers wrap around the rough warm bark, And feel the pulse beneath the winter crust. The eye expands to catch a fractured spark, A dragonfly that turns to golden dust. Red is the apple split within the sun, Blue is the deep where quiet rivers flow. Green is the sprout that breaks the seedling's run, Yellow the light before the shadows grow. The words arrive like whispers on the wind, To name the rain, the stone, the fading fire. They write the story of where we begin, And trace the path toward the final spire. So let the hand explore what eyes can see, Until the colors fade into the gray.	6	The rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewr…	1
163	ultra_held_out	The Beauty of Union by George the Poet	George the Poet	A poem about two people merging their lives into a strong and beautiful union, making decisions together and finding love without worry.	There’s an indescribable beauty in union In two beings forming one new being Entering each other’s world Surrendering each other’s selves Accepting the invitation to be everything to someone else There’s an unparallelled bravery in union In telling the one you love: “The only way that we can truly win Is if I think of you in everything I do And honour every decision you faithfully include me in.” Love gives union true meaning It illuminates the path It wants us to compromise, communicate and laugh It wants us to elevate, appreciate without pride Love is oblivious to the outside Even with an audience of millions Even when that love bears immortal significance All of this is met with cordial indifference By the two people at the heart of it Two individuals when they started it Becoming two halves of one partnership Such is the beauty of union Such is the beauty of union	Two separate streams begin to weave A single path where shadows leave No longer standing side by side But walking with a shared stride We choose the road with one clear voice And find in union, purest choice To build a home on solid ground Where trust and quiet peace are found The heavy weight of doubt is gone Replaced by light that greets the dawn With every step we take as one Our love remains forever won No fear can touch this gentle space We move together through time and place A strong and beautiful design Where your heart beats perfectly with mine	Two lives once edged in solitary hair now bough by bough grow doubly rich and rare drawing roots together through the killing year to bear a shelter none other seemed prepared no longer asking who bears whom but wondering how such wonder grew from two differing notes – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	2	Two rivers meet where valleys used to be And form a current broad and deep and free No longer asking which way one must go But walking steady in the afterglow We stand as one before the coming dawn To weigh the heavy things we have drawn From all our pasts and all our fears Then lift them up together with such care The worry that once held our hands apart Dissolves like dew at morning on our heart We choose the road, the home, the daily bread With loving confidence by every step Not wondering if the other stands aside But feeling whole nowhere else to hide A marriage built of laughter and of trust Where worries fall away into the dust Just you and me and all we are about Finding the peace that doubt had locked out Strong and beautiful and clearly defined Leaving all hesitation far behind We move as one through joy and through the pain In solid love without a trace of strain Our lives merged tight like roots beneath the earth Giving our union life and new great worth No shadows linger on our open door Only the certainty of having more More time, more days, more reasons to believe In all the wonder that our hearts achieve Together now we face the unknown sea At liberty and wholly wild and free To grow as trees whose branches interweave In shelter from the storm and sudden grief Selected well by two who know the cost Nothing of what we loved or were was lost But doubled back in ways we never saw Protected by a universal law That says when two become a single whole There is no room for fear or lack of soul Only the beauty of a shared design Where yours and mine are yours and mine Forevermore in all we say and do Beginning all our days again anew Without a worry hanging overhead Only the loving path we firmly tread Hand in hand towards the setting and the rise Opened wide to all surprises Confident and sure in all we are Like evening followed by a brilliant star Merged completely in a bright embrace Finding our happy and untroubled space To live and love and never look away In perfect light of our own special day Stro…	7	Two streams that ran apart for years Now find a single, wider course Where every doubt and every fear Is washed away by gentle force We stand together at the cross And point our hands toward the same No longer walking through the loss But sharing one enduring name The morning light is soft and clear As we decide where next to go With not a shadow of a care Or secret things we need to hide Our hearts beat in a steady flow With nothing left to fear or dread A future built on trust and grace Where worry has no room to tread In quiet talks and loud debates We build a home of solid stone Where love grows strong and never waits To claim the world as all our own No storm can shake the roots we keep No distance pulls us far apart For in this union, wide and deep We hold each other safe in heart	7	Two rivers meet where banks grow soft and wide No longer separate currents rushing by But one deep stream that holds the other's tide Beneath a vast and untroubled sky We choose the path with hands already joined No heavy weight of doubt to slow our pace A single voice in every plan we've coined Reflecting love within each other's face The future is not something we must fear But gardens growing from a shared design Where every worry fades and disappears Leaving only roots that deeply intertwine So let us walk this road without a care With strength that comes from being fully whole A union built on trust beyond compare Two beating hearts becoming one complete soul	7	Two paths that wound through separate woods Now twist together, root to root, A single tree where branches stood To share the sun and bear the fruit. We weigh the morning's heavy choice With hands held tight against the cold, And in each other's steady voice Find stories waiting to be told. No shadow falls on what we build, No fear can breach this quiet wall, For every worry is stilled When two become one, standing tall. The future blooms without a thorn, A garden grown from shared design, Where love, by mutual grace, is born And shines as clear and bright as wine.	7	Two separate streams find where the river bends And join their currents in a quiet deep No longer asking where the path extends But making promises that they will keep We choose the morning light and evening rain With hands intertwined to guide us through No shadow falls upon this shared domain For every choice is made by me and you The weight of worry lifts into the air As trust becomes the foundation we have laid There is no fear when standing side by side In love's embrace, forever unafraid	7	Two separate rivers find the same wide sea, Where currents mix and cease to wander free. We walk as one beneath a single sky, With no more fear of what the days might try. Together now we choose the path ahead, No whispered doubt within the words we've said. Your hand in mine becomes the compass true, A map we draw with every step we do. The heavy weight of worry fades away, Replaced by calm that greets the breaking day. In quiet trust our hearts have learned to beat, As perfect rhythm makes the union sweet. No storm can break this bond we've built so deep, A promise made for all the years to keep. Just you and I, in love without a care, Breathing the same soft and unhurried air.	7	We weave the threads until the pattern blends, A single tapestry where separate ends dissolve into deep grace. No longer two distinct voices echoing alone, But one harmonious chord that fills the quiet space. We choose the path with eyes aligned and open hands, Deciding what is right without a shadow of fear. The weight we carry now becomes so light it floats above, For every burden shared makes love expand so clear. There is no need to check beneath the calm for storms, Or build a fortress against a wind that does not blow. Trust is the foundation upon which our rest is built, A peaceful garden where only gentle seasons grow.	7	AI write	7
168	train	The Hawthorn Tree by Willa Cather	Willa Cather	A poem about a speaker reminiscing about mysterious, intimate moments shared with a male figure beneath a hawthorn tree in a beautiful natural setting, while keeping the words he spoke a secret.	ACROSS the shimmering meadows-- Ah, when he came to me! In the spring-time, In the night-time, In the starlight, Beneath the hawthorn tree. Up from the misty marsh-land-- Ah, when he climbed to me! To my white bower, To my sweet rest, To my warm breast, Beneath the hawthorn tree. Ask of me what the birds sang, High in the hawthorn tree; What the breeze tells, What the rose smells, What the stars shine-- Not what he said to me!	The hawthorn held its breath above the grass Where white petals fell like silent snow, And in that green and shadowed quiet space, The world dissolved to just the two of us. His voice was low, a ripple on the stream, That wove a spell beneath the ancient bough, He spoke of things too fragile for a dream, Too sacred for the light of morning now. I trace the bark where fingers once had pressed, Remembering the warmth against my hand, But what he said remains within my chest, A secret kept by wind and shifting sand. No bird could carry out those whispered words, No river flow with such a heavy sound, They hang suspended like the summer birds, Lost forever in this hallowed ground. So let the hawthorn bloom and fade again, And let the seasons turn their golden wheel, I hold the silence of his spoken pen, A mystery only I can feel.	Beneath the throwing arm of old William Edward whose white flowers were shaken by a sudden spring gust he drew nearer blocking all else from our poor view his hair smelling of crushed nettles and coming home while he leaned to brush his lips against mine the birds went silent not from shock but sympathy then he spoke low rich etcetera about love etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etce…	1	The hawthorn threw its white and heavy bough Over the grass where we had lain to talk While birds dipped low and drew a sudden bow Before they slipped away from talking He leaned his shoulder near mine in the shade And spoke of things that never touched the air A language only summer seemed to have That hung suspended everywhere His voice was low as roots that dig Beneath the earth where secrets grow But all he said I kept as such As flowers hide their scent from snow The memory lives in bark and leaf In dew that clings at morning light Where every spoken tender grief Is locked away from sight I watch the tree and see him there Still standing in the afternoon With all his wonderful unknown Confined to silence and the moon No one else shall know the words That passed between the root and bough Only the wind who hardly heard Knows how the moment grew Then died Leaving me Alone To wonder At What He Said Beneath The White Hawthorn Tree Where Everything Was Mine To Keep In Secret From All Who See Only Two Figures There In Shade Who Never Asked Why Words Were Made Not For The Air But For The Heart Where Love Begins And Stays Apart From Public View In Private Part Of Memory That Cannot Leave Nor Be Returned Nor Ever Weave Its Tapestry For Anyone Else To See Except The Man Who Whispered Low Beneath The Tree Where None Other Go And Only He Knows How It Felt When He Spoke Those Things Unfelt By Any Other Soul On Earth Whole Save Me Who Hears Them Still In Every Fall Of Leaf On Grass Below The Wall Of Thorns That Hide Us Both Away From Day From Night From All They Say About Such Matters In Their Head While We Have Nothing Left To Read But Silence Rich And Full And Sweet Where He And I Our Secret Meet Beneath The White And Blooming Tree That Keeps His Words Only For Me And Never Once Has Shown Or Said Exactly What He Really Said Only That He Spoke It Low Where Only Roots And Winds Out Grow To Listen Hard But Learn Not Much Of Such A Very Quiet Touch Between Two Souls Who Found Their Way To Hide In Shadows Of The Hay And Spea…	5	The hawthorn held its breath of white Against the bruising purple sky, Where shadows stretched and grew too long To hide the way your eyes drew nigh. We sat where roots had cracked the stone And ferns uncurled in morning dew, A world of green and silver light That felt entirely new to you. You spoke of things the wind might steal If not for how the branches bowed, Your voice a low and steady hum Beneath the flowering summer cloud. I memorized the shape of sound But let the meaning slip away, For some sweet truths are meant to live Only within the heart they stay. The secrets of that whispered hour Are locked behind a silent gate, No tongue can tell what passed between The blossom and the trembling fate. Now years have turned the leaves to brown And stripped the tree of all its snow, But still I guard the words you said Where only we and wild things know.	6	The hawthorn stood in white and wild profusion Against a sky of bruised and tender blue, Where shadows played a quiet, shifting motion And only birds knew what we two would do. He leaned his weight against the roughened bark And spoke in tones that wove through summer air, A language meant to leave no visible mark Upon the moss or on the grasses there. I watched the way the sunlight caught his hair And traced the lines of wonder on his face, While secrets hung suspended in the rare And heavy silence of that holy place. He whispered things the wind could not repeat, A promise kept within a closed-up hand, That turned the ordinary into sweet And made the solid earth feel like soft sand. Now years have passed and seasons turn their wheel, But I still see him standing in the light, With all he said remaining far too real To share with day or speak to anyone at night. The tree still blooms when spring returns again, Its petals falling like a silent prayer, Holding the echo of those words unseen, A sacred space where nothing else compares. I keep them safe beneath my beating heart, Those mysteries he offered just to me, Never to be torn from us or part, But locked away where only memories free.	6	The hawthorn stood like a sentinel of white, Its branches weaving shadows on the grass, Where we sat close beneath the fading light, And watched the golden hours slowly pass. The air was thick with scent of rain and bloom, While bees hummed low within the heavy air, You leaned your shoulder gently in the gloom, And whispered things that only I could hear. Your voice was soft as moss upon the stone, A secret language meant for us alone, It traced the curve of jaw and ear and bone, And left a silence that I still have known. I do not know the words you spoke that day, Nor what they promised or what they concealed, They melted in the twilight's gentle sway, Into the roots where ancient secrets yield. Let them remain within the leafy deep, A hidden vow the wind can never tell, For some things are too sacred to keep, Too intimate for any tongue to spell.	6	The hawthorn bloomed in clouds of white and pink, A canopy that held the afternoon. We sat where shadows danced and softly sank, Beneath the rustle of the gentle green. The air was thick with scent of rain and bloom, And silence stretched between us like a thread. You spoke in whispers from the quiet gloom, Of things too sacred for the world to read. I watched the light play on your steady face, While words you chose remained within my chest. No echo could betray that hidden space, Where secrets found their rest inside my breast. The wind might shake the branches high above, But what you said is mine to keep alone. A fragile, fierce, and unspoken love, Beneath the hawthorn's ancient, thorny throne.	7	The hawthorn bowed its white-blossomed head, A canopy of lace against the blue, Where sunlight fractured through the leaves above, And painted gold upon the mossy hue. We sat within that quiet, green embrace, While bees hummed low beneath the summer air, You spoke a thing I cannot write or say, A secret woven into tangled prayer. Your voice was soft as wind through rustling grass, Yet carried weight enough to make me still, I held your gaze until the world dissolved, And time forgot to move beyond the hill. Now years have passed and seasons turned their wheel, The tree stands tall with bark both rough and deep, But what you whispered in that sacred shade, Is mine alone, a promise I will keep.	6	The hawthorn bloomed so thick above, A canopy of cream and green, Where shadows danced beneath the clove, And silence reigned within this scene. You sat with me upon the moss, So close I felt your breathing deep, The world above could make no loss, For promises we meant to keep. I do recall the rustling leaves, The scent of rain upon the stone, But what you whispered softly please, Is now a truth I claim alone. Oh, how the sun would break through gray, To catch the mist upon your cheek, Yet fade into the turning day, Before the final words could speak. So let the wind rewrite the tune, Let birds replace the tone you made, Beneath this blooming, ancient boon, My quiet vow is strictly laid.	6	beneath …	1
169	train	The Falling Leaves by Margaret Postgate Cole	Margaret Postgate Cole	"A poem about leaves falling silently from a tree, representing the countless soldiers dropping one by one in war, their bodies blanketing the fields like snowflakes covering the earth in a vast, peaceful, and sorrowful silence."	Today, as I rode by, I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree In a still afternoon, When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky, But thickly, silently, They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon; And wandered slowly thence For thinking of a gallant multitude Which now all withering lay, Slain by no wind of age or pestilence, But in their beauty strewed Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.	A single leaf detaches from the bough And drifts without a sound to touch the ground Another follows, then another now As autumn winds make no triumphant sound They fall like men who stood in ranks so tight Before the silence took them one by one The green of youth gives way to fading light Until the battle's roar is fully done No drumbeat marks their final resting place Just soft descent upon the trampled soil A quiet hush covers the open space Where life has paid its heavy, final toll The field grows white with uniforms of gray Like snowflakes settling on a frozen plain They lie as still as shadows at the day That never breaks again to bring the rain A vast and peaceful sorrow fills the air As nature wraps the fallen in her shroud There is no glory left for us to share Only the silence rising through the cloud	Not – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	A single leaf lets go then another drifting on a breath none hears while high in boughs of shaken wood the whole army waits its turn to fall not with the crash of falling stone but as a whisper as a sigh that settles softly on the grass one by one they come and where the earth was once a sea of green now white and pale and still they cover all like snowflakes killing summer blanketing the blood in a vast peaceful and sorrowful silence where no footstep sounds and only autumn counts the dead who lie at peace among their kin who fell before them all gone silent still covered over by the weight of many more who must come down to join the white and weeping snow of soldiers who have stopped moving stopped speaking stopped being only lying there beneath the tree that sheds its skin of war for one last time of rest of death of quiet of no more sound of any kind of cry of rage of pain of life that went out with a leaf that turned from green to brown to nothing else but earth again where all returns to dust and memory is all that falls beside them on the ground where none will see their faces clear but know that once they were alive and now they are the blanket that covers up the world from looking too hard at all that went away to stay behind in silence that never ends or begins or stops or starts but just is there like snow that never melts but only piles higher and deeper under sky that watches without weeping while the tree stands empty of its children who were soldiers who were sons who were everyone who had to go and did not return to call their names back home to where the hearth was warm but only returned to lie down next to those who came before and those who follow after all of them together in the field that looks like winter though it might be late autumn when the wind comes through and takes another one away to join the heap of fallen things that look like peace but were not meant to be such calm such still such dead such final end of all that moved and spoke and loved and lived and then went out to become th…	2	A single leaf detaches from the bough And drifts without a sound to touch the ground Another follows, then another now As autumn winds and distant cannons pound They fall in rows of red and gold and brown Like uniforms that once were bright and new The forest floor begins to wear a gown Of fallen men who had a life to do No trumpet sounds to mark their quiet end No marching feet to shake the frozen earth Just silent bodies where the brothers bend To lie beside the ones they knew since birth The field grows white with snow of human form A blanket soft against the bloodied soil Calm as a storm that never comes to harm But brings an everlasting, heavy toil The trees stand bare and watch the landscape grow With every breath the wind blows through the air A soldier drops where only grasses blow Leaving a silence heavy everywhere It looks like winter coming down too soon But it is death in all its pale disguise Covering up the battle and the noon With peaceful, sorrowful, and falling sighs The world holds still beneath this snowy weight Where leaves and soldiers rest in one deep sleep Too late to open any locked gate Too far for any promise they could keep Only the silence remains to tell the tale Of how the many fell to save the few As nature covers all the tragic pale In layers of the old and dying dew	7	The green turns gold then brown and loose A silent drift from bough to air No trumpet sounds, no bugle blows Just gravity and empty prayer One falls, a soldier in the dark Then two, then ten, a quiet rain They do not strike with clashing steel But lie as soft as winter's grain The field grows white beneath their weight Not snow, but uniforms of gray A blanket woven from the dead To hide the mud and wash away The noise of battle fades to dust As leaf on leaf descends so slow A vast and sorrowful repose Where only silence dares to grow	6	The wind does not howl, the branches do not cry, Just a slow release of green turning to brown, A quiet surrender as they drift and fly, To settle softly on the ground below. One by one they fall without a sound, Like young men stepping from the line of fire, Their heavy forms upon the trampled ground, Extinguishing the last remaining light. They pile in layers where the wheat once stood, A carpet woven from the lives they lost, No trumpet calls to break the solitude, Just silence growing deep within the frost. The field is white with fallen leaves and snow, A vast and peaceful shroud for all the dead, Where sorrow moves so gently, soft and low, That even grief forgets to speak or weep. The earth accepts them with a silent breath, And wraps the world in blankets cold and deep, A garden grown from life that ended death, While nature watches over those who sleep.	6	The wind does not howl this evening, It only whispers through the boughs, And one by one, the green turns gold, Then brown, then drifts without a sound. They fall as soldiers once did fall, No drumbeat marks their final step, Just heavy hearts and weary limbs That cease to fight, that cease to weep. A single leaf descends alone, Like one young man who drops in dust, Then another joins the silent flight, Until the air is thick with loss. The field below begins to change, A carpet woven from the dead, As soft as snow upon a grave, As quiet as a prayer unsaid. There is no thunder, no alarm, Just nature's gentle, grim embrace, Where countless bodies rest at last, In this vast, sorrowful space. The earth is blanketed in stillness, A white shroud made of fallen leaves, Peaceful in its terrible depth, Where silence is the only breath.	6	A single green turns gold and lets go, Drifting down without a sound, One by one the branches thin, Until the forest floor is bound. They fall so soft upon the grass, No thunder breaks the quiet air, Just heavy hearts that cease to beat, And bodies laid with gentle care. The field becomes a sheet of white, Though beneath the cloth lies red, A vast and silent winter snow, Where countless fallen heroes rest. No wind can lift them now again, No song can wake the deep repose, Just leaves that turned to men before, Now blanketing the earth in snows.	6	Above the canopy, a single green turns gold, Detaches without sound, without a plea. It drifts across the misty air so cold, To rest beneath the ancient, gnarled tree. So does a soldier drop into the deep, One uniform fading into shadow's thread. No drumbeat wakes the valley from its sleep, Just silence wrapping round the quiet dead. They fall in patterns vast and soft and slow, Until the rust is hidden beneath white. The crimson bloom beneath the branches show, Is now just flesh beneath the frost of night. A blanket made of limbs that will not rise, Like snowflakes covering the weary ground. Reflecting calm within the storm-wreathed skies, Where hope makes no reply to make a sound. So vast the field where every leaf has lain, So peaceful is this final, gentle rain.	7	Green改写 write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite re…	7
178	ultra_held_out	I Loved You by Alexander Pushkin	Alexander Pushkin	"A poem about a speaker expressing his enduring love and deep affection for a past beloved, describing the many ways he has loved her, and wishing her the same devoted love from another."	I loved you: yet the love, maybe, Has not extinguished in my heart; But hence may not it trouble thee; I do not want to make you sad. I loved you hopelessly and mutely, Now with shyness, now with jealousy being vexed; I loved you so sincerely, so fondly, Likewise may someone love you next. Translation by Emil Sharafutdinov: I loved you; even now I must confess, Some embers of my love their fire retain; But do not let it cause you more distress, I do not want to sadden you again. Hopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly With pangs the jealous and the timid know; So tenderly I love you, so sincerely, I pray God grant another love you so.	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light, When shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight. I loved you in the storms that raged against the glass, Watching how your spirit stood while all the others passed. I loved the way you laughed at jokes no one else could hear, The gentle weight of sorrow when a single tear drew near. I loved the summer dust motes dancing in the air, And every unspoken promise that we never dared to share. My love was not a fleeting spark that burned and turned to gray, But roots that went deep beneath the soil to hold you through the day. It was in the coffee cups I left beside your bed, In words I swallowed back to keep the peace within our head. It was in the patience waiting for you to find your way, Through nights of doubt and wandering into the breaking day. Now though the road has parted and my hands can no longer hold, A story written in the heart that time cannot unfold, I wish for you a lover who will see what I have seen, Who cherishes the fragile beauty of your soul so clean. May he love you as I did, with every breath he draws, Without a single question or a hesitation's pause. May he guard your weary spirit and lift you when you fall, And answer every whisper before you speak it at all. I give you to another now, with blessings on my tongue, That you may know the devotion where my song is sung.	Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edw…	1	I loved you in the quiet of the morning When dew still clung to edges of the grass And later in the fervor of the noon When shadows were but brief and passing things I loved the way your laughter broke the air Like sudden birds taking flight from heavy boughs I loved the silence when we had no words More than all speeches ever offered twice I loved your hands that worked and held and tended The fragile lives we tried to grow together I loved your doubts as much as your assurance Your sharp edge and your soft and yielding heart There was a part of loving all the unknown A hunger satisfied by simply being near But since those days have passed and roads diverged My affection has not wavered or grown cold It settled like a root in deeper earth That drinks the memory of our rainy years So may another come who sees your worth Not just as I once saw it in the spring But finds a way to love you even more To tend the garden where my feet grew tired To hold your hand with such devoted care That every doubt you bear dissolves away As mine dissolved before your smiling face Go forth and be admired and greatly loved By someone who will cherish all you are For having known your beauty, none should lack The very best devotion life affords My heart remains a witness to your grace While wishing yours a joy far greater still From hands that know exactly how to stay From eyes that see the wonder in your soul As clearly as I did on all those days Before the world grew large and we grew far Still loving you in all these different ways Still hoping he loves you ten times as well As I have always loved and always will In ways unseen and spoken nevermore Except in prayers sent out on evening wind May he return the fullness of his heart As often as he hears your happy laugh As often as he sees your hair fall loose As often as he notices your mood A man who knows the language of your skin Who treats your spirit like a holy shrine Such is the wish I hold most dearly now That after all the loving I have done Another comes to offer all he ha…	7	I loved the way you laughed when rain began to fall And traced the quiet maps of lines upon your palm I loved the silence that we shared without a sound The heavy weight of winter and the spring's first bloom I loved the anger that you held then quickly threw away The fragile trust you placed in hands I tried to keep I loved the stories that you told about your childhood home The way your hair caught sunlight like a golden thread I loved the dreams you whispered late into the night The way you saw a world where nothing went astray I loved you not for who you were but for who I became When standing near your side, the shadows all grew thin Now that the seasons have turned and you have walked on by I wish another heart might hold you just as deep May someone love the laughter and the tears you hide May someone know the secrets that you never speak aloud May they cherish every breath you take and every step you make As I once did, with all the love a soul can bear And may their devotion be the shelter that you seek A love as steady as the stars above your head Just as mine remains, though distant now and far away.	7	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light Before the world had woken to its noise, I loved you in the shadows of the night When silence held us like a sacred poise. I loved the way you laughed at silly things, The curve your lips would make when you were shy, The rhythm that your walking footsteps bring Beneath the vast and unrelenting sky. I loved you with a patience that could wait Through seasons turning green to gold and gray, I loved you even when we disagreed on fate And walked our separate paths for many a day. My love was not a fire that burned and died But rather like the river carving stone, A steady current where my heart resided In every place that I have ever known. Now though you walk a road I cannot tread With hands I never hold and eyes unseen, I send this wish upon the air instead That someone loves you as I always have been. May they adore the very soul you are As deeply as I did through time and space, May they be yours no matter where you are And find in you their own beloved place.	7	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light, When dust motes danced above the floor we swept together, And I loved you in the heavy silence of the night, When storms would rage and shake the window sash. I loved the way you laughed at jokes that weren't quite funny, I loved the stubborn set of jaw when you were right, I loved the softness of your hand within my own, A tether holding fast against the turning tide. I loved you through the seasons as they changed their faces, In winter's bite and summer's golden, heavy haze, I gave you every part of me that could be given, My fears, my hopes, my weary and my wilder days. Now though the road has led us to a distant shore, And I am walking here while you are walking there, I wish for you a love that mirrors what I felt, A devotion deep enough to heal and to repair. May someone hold you with the same fierce tenderness, Who counts the moments lost as precious time regained, Who sees the world entirely through the lens of you, And loves you just as fiercely as I have always planned.	6	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light, When shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight. I loved you in the storm that raged against the glass, Holding you through thunder's roll while time refused to pass. I loved you with a thousand words I never spoke aloud, A silent prayer whispered beneath a shifting cloud. I loved you in the laughter shared when nothing mattered more, And in the heavy grief that made me feel your absence sore. I loved you with my hands that built a home for us to keep, With promises I made to guard your heart while you were asleep. I loved you in the seasons turning gold to winter's gray, In every single breath I took to see another day. But now I wish this same deep fire for someone else to find, To hold you as I once did, with a gentle, steady mind. May they love you in the sunlight and in storms that tear the sky, With all the depth of devotion that I cannot hide or lie. So let them give you what I gave, a love that will not fade, A constant, guiding starlight through the mess we sometimes made. Though I am gone from where you stand, my wish remains the same, That you are cherished deeply, just as I once knew your name.	7	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light, When dust motes danced above your sleeping form, And I loved you in the storm that shook the night, Standing guard against the wind and rain so warm. I loved the way you laughed until you cried, The secret stories hidden in your eyes, The gentle strength within your open pride, The vast and endless depth of your replies. I loved the silence shared across a room, The coffee steam that rose between us two, I loved the shadows chasing out the gloom, And every promise made and kept anew. Though time has turned the pages of our past, And separate paths now lead where we must go, I hold this memory steady and fast, A fire that will never cease to glow. So let another find the heart I gave, To walk beside you through the sun and shade, To be the one who makes your spirit brave, In all the ways that my own love once made. May they adore the curve upon your smile, May they protect you when the world feels cold, May they make every single mile worthwhile, And give you back the warmth I used to hold.	7	I loved you in the quiet rustle of rain against the glass, I loved you in the heavy silence where no words could pass. I loved the curve beneath your smile, the shadow on your cheek, The way the light would find your eyes and make the morning break. I gave my hope to make you rise above the tide's reply, I carved my name into the stone beneath the vastest sky. I cherished every scattered thread within the tapestry you spun, And held them close until my heart forgot what it meant to run. So let this legacy remain within the wind that turns, A fire that does not fade though embers cease to burn. May someone find the vessel now I keep so deep inside, With gentle hands to polish clean the places left untied. Let them give you what I give, a love without an end, Let them be the faithful friend upon whom you can rely. For I write this final verse so you might truly see, That you are worthy of the same devotion set free.	7	I write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	1
182	train	Whispers of Immortality by T.S. Eliot	T.S. Eliot	A poem about exploring the inescapable presence of death beneath the surfaces of life, love, and sexuality, ultimately consuming all else.	Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin; And breastless creatures under ground Leaned backward with a lipless grin. Daffodil bulbs instead of balls Stared from the sockets of the eyes! He knew that thought clings round dead limbs Tightening its lusts and luxuries. Donne, I suppose, was such another Who found no substitute for sense, To seize and clutch and penetrate; Expert beyond experience, He knew the anguish of the marrow The ague of the skeleton; No contact possible to flesh Allayed the fever of the bone. . . . . . Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye Is underlined for emphasis; Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss. The couched Brazilian jaguar Compels the scampering marmoset With subtle effluence of cat; Grishkin has a maisonnette; The sleek Brazilian jaguar Does not in its arboreal gloom Distil so rank a feline smell As Grishkin in a drawing-room. And even the Abstract Entities Circumambulate her charm; But our lot crawls between dry ribs To keep our metaphysics warm.	The pulse that drums beneath the skin Is counting down the seconds in A rhythm borrowed from the grave, A debt we cannot choose to save. In lovers' touch, a fever burns, Yet every kiss quietly returns To dust that waits within the bone, A silent king upon the throne. The bed where passion spills its heat Holds shadows at the foot of feet, For flesh is but a temporary tent Before the final dark is spent. We build our castles on the sand, Ignoring how the waves command To wash away the hand that drew The lines of what we thought was true. No flower blooms without the root That drinks the water from the suit Of earth that claims us all the same, Erasing names and burning fame. The mouth that speaks of endless years Is fed by silence and by fears, As life, with all its vibrant art, Is just the prelude to the heart's Final surrender to the night, Where light dissolves into the white And nothing stands, no sound remains, Only the quiet, deep domain.	Bright hair brushes skin but worms already dreaming of appetite that sex asserts as a declaration not of beginning but borrowing from a grave always digging upward love locks hands interlocking while roots of unseen creatures stretch between their feet drawing down all rich earth returns to empt by else none etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter et…	1	Beneath the blush of skin where arterial rush sings there waits a silent ancient cold that knows the weight of every bone before it hardens to dust In laughter sharp as glass we see the edge of our own fragile transience Love that burns bright and blind feeds only the slow burn of end The clash of bodies seeking heat is but a desperate charm against the coming freeze sex that opens like a door leads not to new life but to the edge of all that must cease Nothing outlasts the dark that under every pulse beats its own rhythm of return eating joy from within consuming memory and touch until only the quiet remains absolute and inescapable as gravity drawing all down to the same still center where death has always lived waiting for us to arrive home at last to nothing more than the earth that holds our name no longer said by any mouth only the wind passing over empty space where once was everything that ever was alive or loved or wanted to live on but cannot now that time has taken its due from every heart that stopped beating in the night while we were busy thinking we were whole but were already gone to become part of the grave that opened up to swallow the world whole without asking why or who or when just taking it all back to the source of silence that never spoke nor listened nor minded that we tried to love hard enough to stay but failed because death was always already there under the skin inside the chest behind the eyes looking out with ears that heard only the end coming closer every second of every breath we took thinking it was ours to keep but it was never mine nor yours but only his who takes all away and leaves none behind except the memory of having been brief flashes of warmth before the long dark settled in to cover all that was beautiful terrible and true about being alive which ended when the last note faded out of the song we never finished singing because death had already started listening for the very first note of our beginning knowing exactly when it would have to stop it all from starting ag…	2	The skin is warm and pulses with a frantic, borrowed heat A fever dream of touch that tries to forget the coming cold We press our mouths together seeking something pure and whole Unaware the grave already waits beneath the floorboards In every kiss there hides a silent hunger for the end A taste of dust that lingers on the tongue before we speak Love builds its castles out of breath and bone and fleeting time But the tide of silence rises up to swallow every stone Sexuality is but a desperate dance against the dark A flash of lightning in a sky that knows it must grow black The body yearns to merge, to fuse, to never be apart While death stands patiently behind the door, holding the key It drinks the wine we pour, it walks the halls we sweep It watches as we laugh and cry and promise not to leave For nothing lasts except the slow return to quiet earth The root, the worm, the hollow space where all our stories start And when the final heartbeat fades into the empty air There is no other guest who was not always waiting there	5	The rose blooms red against the garden wall But roots drink deep from graves beneath the soil A lover's touch is warm and soft and tall Yet hides the cold that waits to end the toil We weave our sheets in silk and satin bright And whisper vows that time cannot undo But shadows stretch across the candlelight To show the skeleton waiting underneath the view The pulse that beats within a chest of love Is counting down the seconds left to spend A frantic bird above a silent dove That knows exactly where its life must end No kiss can seal the breach that death has made No child can stop the river from its course The beauty of the living is afraid Of the inevitable, dark and forceful source It sleeps inside the skin we wear so well It hums a quiet tune beneath the song It pulls the final curtain on the shell Where everything we were belongs too long In every breath we take there lies a grave In every heart there beats a hollow sound We are but dust before we even wave To those who walk upon this sinking ground So let us dance while music fills the air And hold each other close before the night For nothing lasts, and nothing really cares About the fading of our borrowed light The surface breaks, the water turns to ice The fire burns out, the stars begin to dim There is no price too high, no sacrifice That stops the mouth of silence from being grim It consumes the love, it eats the sex and sin It swallows up the laughter and the tears It waits for all the worlds to finally win By turning years to dust and years to years	7	The pulse beneath the wrist is a ticking clock hiding in the warm skin of a lover's neck where every kiss tastes faintly of the grave and the heat that rises between us feeds the cold. We build our castles on the shifting sand ignoring the tide that waits to wash it clean the silk of sheets becomes a winding sheet the laughter in the dark a final breath. Beneath the bloom, the root is rotting slow beneath the vow, the silence starts to grow the fire of desire is just ash waiting to fall and cover all we thought was real. No wall can hold the shadow at the door no promise strong enough to keep it out it drinks the wine, it breaks the cup, it ends the song, the touch, the beating of the heart.	6	Beneath the flush of skin where lovers meet, A quiet coldness waits to claim the heat. The pulse that drums against a lover's hand, Is just a clock ticking toward the sand. We build our castles on the shifting shore, Ignoring how the tide has gone before. The scent of roses in the morning air, Hides rot within the soil beneath them there. Every touch is borrowed time we keep, While shadows lengthen while the world's asleep. The fire that burns so bright within the chest, Will turn to ash and silence, put to rest. No vow can hold the dark at bay forever, No promise strong enough to make it sever. It sleeps inside the seed before the bloom, And waits within the corners of the room. It drinks the wine, it breaks the glass of life, It cuts the thread through every knife and strife. Until the heart stops beating in the night, And nothing shines but what was lost to light.	7	Beneath the velvet skin where pulse beats loud A quiet rustling waits within the crowd We build our castles on a shifting sand And hold each other with a trembling hand The fire that burns between us is so bright It casts a shadow stretching into night For every kiss is just a brief delay Before the silence takes the light away Love weaves its tapestry in threads of gold But time unravels what was once so bold The seed that sprouts within the fertile ground Is destined to be lost beneath the mound We dance upon the edge of deep decay Ignoring how the sun will fade to gray No matter how we run or how we hide The final door stands open, waiting wide It waits beneath the laughter and the song To make the heavy silence last so long Until the heart, the breath, the flesh, the bone Are left alone to face the dark alone	7	The rose expands beneath the sun's warm gaze, Yet in its velvet throat the mold takes root. We build our castles on the shifting sands, And carve our names into the rotting fruit. A touch ignites the fire within the veins, But cools to silence as the pulse decays. The lovers merge until their separate frames, Are lost within a fading, gray mist haze. The tide pulls tight around the coral reef, Where vibrant hues give way to bleached and bone. Beneath the laughter rides the final thief, To make the seed into the soil alone. No fortress stands against the quiet deep, No promise breaks the contract written there. The eyes that love must eventually sleep, And breathe into the vast, unyielding air.	7	The polish帮润 rewrite帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮润帮	7
186	ultra_held_out	At Last We Killed The Roaches by Lucille Clifton	Lucille Clifton	A poem about a speaker reflecting on the killing of roaches in her childhood home, moving from relief to regret and considering the act as murder against creatures simply living the best they could.	at last we killed the roaches. mama and me. she sprayed, i swept the ceiling and they fell dying onto our shoulders, in our hair covering us with red. the tribe was broken, the cooking pots were ours again and we were glad, such cleanliness was grace when i was twelve. only for a few nights, and then not much, my dreams were blood my hands were blades and it was murder murder all over the place.	The click of the shoe against the tile was a satisfying punctuation to a long day, a small victory in a war I didn't understand, just the instinctive relief that the dark thing was still. I remember the spray mist hanging in the kitchen air, sweet and chemical, a scent that meant safety, meant clean floors and parents nodding approval that we were protecting our little kingdom from the scuttling invaders. But now, standing in a quiet room years later, the memory shifts its weight, heavy and strange, and I see not a monster but a creature trying to survive, navigating a world too large and too bright for its small eyes. They were only looking for crumbs in the cracks, seeking warmth under the sink where the pipes hummed, living their brief, frantic lives with a desperate purpose that I never paused to honor or even notice. What did I know then of their right to be here? To scurry and breed and fear the thunder of my foot? I called it pest control, a necessary cleaning, but now it feels like murder against the innocent. We are all just trying to live the best we can, hiding in the shadows, eating what we find, and I wonder if they felt the same sudden shock, the same confusion when the light went out forever.	The killing blow was always instant returned by shouting by rubbing pennants between pale kitchen hands that cheered such – such – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	The kitchen was a battlefield of yellow light where sudden stamps and newspaper blows brought instant silence to the clicking feet that raced along the linoleum edges and for years I cheered the flattened brown the satisfying wet thud that ended all of those invasions in our rented home relief washed over me like summer rain as if we were defending sacred ground from monsters crawling out of every crack but time has softened edges sharp with childhood fear and now I see not monsters but small lives trying desperately to survive to eat the crumbs they found by chance to hide from shadows much larger than themselves they killed no one yet killed anyway by hands that grew impatient and hard was it murder or just killing when a creature asks only for a dark corner to live its brief and frantic life we called it hygiene then calling it war but looking back at those crushed shells I wonder who was worse the one who ran or the one who swung thinking such violence was simply necessary for things that merely were living their best at all costs to themselves while we stood over them with our great big feet and said no more you must not be here even though there was room enough in such a big house for everyone to live if only we had stopped to look before we stepped down hard on everything that moved too quickly in the dark now every click of foot against the floor sounds like an apology from ghost size creatures who never meant to harm but were always already dead by then by habit by fear by careless strength of hands that thought they owned the night but really just rented it along with everything else we trample without thinking of the world beneath our shoes that tries its very best to survive us all long after we have gone to sleep and dream of being clean of being safe of having nothing else to kill besides the bugs that know no law except the law of staying alive which we also follow blind and brave and often wrong about who deserves to live and who must die by our own hand because we cannot bear to see another thing…	2	The kitchen light hummed low that summer night As I watched the shadow skitter on the tile My slipper came down hard, a sudden weight That crushed the hard shell with a sickening crack A wave of relief washed over my small chest Another monster banished from the dark I felt the victory of a human hand Against the things that crawled and hid and fed But years have softened edges of that joy And now I see the creature not as pest But as a life that sought to simply be To find a crumb of bread and stay alive It knew no malice in its scuttling rush No plan to harm or steal or ruin home Just instinct driving it through cracks and walls To live the best it could within its skin And I who stood so tall and held such power Did end a world for nothing more than fear A murder done by feet and heavy shoe Against a heart that beat in tiny drums We called them vermin then and killed without a thought Now silence holds the memory of those deaths Where every step was taken just to live And I was all too quick to stop their breath.	3	The kitchen floor was white with dust and fear And I would stomp with heavy, rubber soles A satisfying crunch that cleared the air And made the shadows feel less like a home I felt a surge of triumph in my chest As if I'd won a war against the dark That night the house was mine again to breathe No skittering feet to break the quiet sleep But years have passed since then and now I see The tiny legs that scrambled for their lives Not monsters sent to steal our bread or peace But tenants seeking shelter from the cold They ran because they lived and loved their young Just as we do within our walls of brick And I who held the power of a god Decided death was all they deserved What right had I to end a frantic heart That only wanted food and somewhere safe? We called it pest control, a necessary act But in the silence of my adult mind It sounds too much like murder plain and simple For creatures doing nothing but surviving Trying their best to be alive at all While I stood tall and crushed them without thought Now every shadow holds a ghostly sound Of tiny wings that never got to fly And I am left to wonder if the guilt Is just another insect in my head Or if the blood is real upon my hands From killing those who asked for nothing more Than space to live the best they could.	2	The spray hissed white against the dark tile And I felt a sharp, clean triumph rise As the twitching legs went still at last A monster slain beneath my heel. My mother smiled and wiped the floor Saying good riddance to the pest We celebrated the quiet house Free from the skittering in the wall. But years have softened that hard edge And now I see it differently Not as a victory of light But as a small and sudden death. They were not demons sent to harm Just hungry things seeking their share Navigating cracks and shadows Trying to live as best they could. I wonder if they knew the fear Of falling from the ceiling high Or if they thought the world was vast Until the fog came down too soon. We called it cleaning, called it safe But in that moment of relief I committed murder on a soul That only wanted bread and warmth.	2	The click of the heel against the linoleum brought a clean, sharp silence to the kitchen floor, a momentary victory for the human hand that swatted away the dark, skittering shadow. I felt the lightness then, the pride of order restored, believing I had banished chaos from my safe haven, that each crushed shell was a trophy of hygiene and that their sudden stillness was justice served. But now the years have softened the edge of that certainty, and I see them not as invaders but as tenants who sought only the warmth of the walls and the crumbs beneath the sink, living their short, frantic lives with desperate purpose. They did not ask for war, nor did they understand the weapon, just scurrying through the cracks in search of sustenance, doing what any creature does when the world is vast and cold. To call it pest control feels like a lie we told ourselves to make the blood on the sole of our shoes feel less heavy, for in that instant of crushing, I committed murder against a soul that simply wanted to survive.	2	I remember the sharp crack of the shoe against the linoleum, a sudden end to the skittering shadow beneath the sink. A clean strike, a dry crunch, and then silence. My mother would nod, satisfied with the order restored, and I felt that same lightness in my chest, a victory against the chaos, the filth, the intruder. But now the house is quiet for other reasons, and the memory shifts like dust in a sunbeam. I see them not as pests but as small, desperate lives, navigating a world too vast and cold for their tiny legs. They were not trying to harm us, only to survive, seeking a crumb, a drop of condensation, a place to rest. What right did we have to judge their existence? To decide that their presence was an offense worthy of death? We called it cleaning, but it felt so much like erasing. They were just living the best they could within the cracks, hiding from the giant thundering feet above. Now I wonder if every crushed shell was a sentence passed without a trial, without understanding. Did they feel fear before the shadow fell? Did they dream of warm corners and endless feast? I mourn the simple, frantic rhythm of their days, the way they moved with purpose through our walls, until I became the storm that ended them.	2	The rustle beneath the baseboard made me start, So I found the can and misted until it stopped. A tiny crumple on the checkered tile, And silence rushed in where the scuttling lived. I remember the clean calm that followed then, A quiet pride within my mother's chest, As if we'd won a war against the dark, And scrubbed the polish into safety deep. Now decades fade the polish into haze, And make me rewrite what I did so small. To drop upon a creature seeking light, Is not to save a house but end a life. They only wanted crumbs beneath the sink, To raise their brood within the humid draft, Living the best they could with legs so thin, Until I turned their world to static gray. What right had I to judge their need for food? Or deem their shadow-wandering as sin? We called them pests to make the act feel clean, But now I see the mirror turning round. I am the giant stepping through the maze, The final judge who判处 without reply, Reflecting now upon that spilled mistake, And feeling vast regret replace the relief.	3	So write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write wr…	1
189	ultra_held_out	I, Being born a Woman and Distressed by Edna St. Vincent Millay	Edna St. Vincent Millay	A poem about a woman navigating the frenzy of desire and biology while asserting her power to walk away from any man without being possessed.	vI, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind, Am urged by your propinquity to find Your person fair, and feel a certain zest To bear your body’s weight upon my breast: So subtly is the fume of life designed, To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind, And leave me once again undone, possessed. Think not for this, however, the poor treason Of my stout blood against my staggering brain, I shall remember you with love, or season My scorn with pity,—let me make it plain: I find this frenzy insufficient reason For conversation when we meet again.	The blood sings a loud and ancient song of hips that sway and lungs that burn, a primal rhythm pulling strong toward the heat of every turn. Her pulse beats fast against her skin, a wild tide rising in the chest, inviting all the world within to put her fragile self to test. Yet in this storm of want and need, where biology demands its due, she stands as sovereign of her seed and knows exactly what to do. She feels the hunger, sharp and deep, the gravity that pulls so near, but holds a promise she will keep: that no one owns her when they're here. Let him reach out with hands that crave, let him whisper words of binding love, she is the wave that leaves the grave of any man who thinks he's above. She walks away without a sound, unbroken by the pull or plea, her feet upon the solid ground free from the chains of fantasy. No man can hold the wind inside, no lover claim the open sky, she carries nothing left to hide beneath the vast and watching eye. Desire may roar and flesh may ache, but power rests in her release, for every step she chooses take is hers alone, and brings her peace.	The blood shouts orders in a language rich and sudden as – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	The blood rushes hot and loud calling out an ancient name that asks to be answered by a body trembling not in fear but in readiness for the collision of two burning things but she hears the sirens of instinct and chooses her own language She tastes the sweetness of his nearness feels the gravity that wants to pin her down to earth to him to a story where she is only the setting or the prize or the quiet after She opens her hands empty then closes them firm around her own spine She steps back from the edge of the hunger that says you are mine she says no I am here whole unopened walking away from the altar of appetite with all her bones still hers all her breath still her own moving not as a leaf driven by his wind but as a ship steering away from any port that demands she sink to stay She leaves not denying the fire but refusing to be the wood that feeds it she walks into her own silence free of his possession free of his reach just herself going on away from him away from it all only her footsteps count now only her choice remains bright and sharp as a blade cutting through the thick air of want she is not taken she is not owned she is going home to herself again always again never stopped never held never bought by the rush of being wanted only by the law of being she who says no to the grave of his love says yes to the sky of her skin and walks away from any man who cannot see that she was never his to have never his to keep never his at all but only hers only hers only hers walking out of the heat into the cool dark of her own will where she stands whole and untouched by any hand but her own holding herself tightly close to the center of all that she is not his not his not his mine mine mine gone from him gone from them gone from the frenzy back to the self who knows how to say no when every part of biology says go she says no and opens up the door to leave not looking back at the shadow of his desire stretching out to grab but knowing it stops right there at the edge of her skin where he has no entry where h…	2	The blood sings a loud and ancient song of heat and hunger, of the body's need to be held, to be known, to be taken whole by hands that reach out from the dark. It is a fever that climbs the spine and tightens the breath until the world shrinks down to the space between two skin where biology demands a collision. But she knows the map of her own bones better than any lover ever could she feels the pull of gravity and moon and chooses instead to stand still in the center of the storm she makes not as prey waiting for the wolf but as the hunter who has seen the trap and stepped lightly over the wire. Let him offer his teeth and his tongue let him promise to own the very air that fills her lungs when she decides to turn her back on the altar of want she walks away with her head high carrying nothing but herself unclaimed, unbroken, and entirely free a woman who belongs only to her own refusal to be possessed by anyone who thinks desire is a deed of ownership rather than a choice she grants or denies with a simple step into the open night.	5	The blood sings a frantic, ancient song of heat and hunger in the dark, a tide that pulls at the marrow demanding to be held, to be kept. He offers his hands like cages of gold, his voice a hook in the softest part, but I feel the pulse not as an invitation but as a drumbeat for my own march. I am not the prey caught in the net of biology's heavy, wet demand. I am the hunter who decides when to stop, the gatekeeper of my own skin. Let the fever burn bright and wild, let the instinct scream for a partner, for I have learned the quiet power of turning my back on the altar. No man owns the rhythm of my breath, no hand can claim the space I occupy. I walk away from the edge of the cliff where desire tries to push me down, stepping back into the cool air with a spine straight and unbroken, free to choose, free to leave, entirely mine, never possessed.	3	The blood sings a wild, ancient tune That drums against the ribcage walls, A hunger that seeks to make you whole By pulling at the invisible chains. He speaks in low, heavy tones Of fate and fire and destiny's hand, But I feel the pulse of my own drum Beating a rhythm strictly mine. I can taste the salt of his desire Like a storm rolling in from the sea, It wants to drown me, claim the shore, To turn my name into his property. Yet here I stand with feet on solid ground, Unmoved by the gravity of need, For biology is a tide, not a master, And I am the captain of this vessel. Let him offer the world or the night, Or promises wrapped in velvet lies, I hold the key to my own door And the power to let it swing wide shut. No man holds the leash to my soul, No voice can command where I go, I walk away through the heat of the frenzy, Free as the wind, untouched, and whole.	5	The pulse drums loud against the wrist A primal rhythm, hot and fast The body sings a ancient song Of heat that makes the shadows cast But in this tide of rising need Where instinct pulls the mind astray She stands apart, a sovereign queen Who holds the key to walk away No hand can claim what she refuses No shadow bind the light she keeps Her flesh may burn with wild desire Yet still her spirit deeply sleeps Let biology demand its due With frantic beats and hungry eyes She owns the door, she owns the lock She owns the truth beneath the skies To leave is not a loss or fear But power carved from stone and bone She walks through fire without a scar And claims a kingdom all her own	6	The pulse beneath the skin is loud, A drumbeat calling out to flesh, To let the wild and ancient crowd Decide the boundaries of my mesh. My blood runs hot, a tide that pulls, Against the quiet walls I build, Yet in this chaos, deep and full, I find the will that cannot yield. You offer eyes that claim the night, And hands that seek to make me stay, But I am not a stolen light, Or prey within your hunting sway. The biology may scream its need, To bind, to break, to take, to keep, But I possess a sovereign seed That wakes while you are fast asleep. So let the frenzy rise and fall, Let desire pull with iron might, I answer to no master's call, I walk alone into the night.	6	The pulse beats loud beneath the ribcage drum, A primal rhythm pulling tight against the will. Her skin hums with the static of what could be, The heavy tide that drags so deep and still. Yet in this chaotic storm of want and need, Where eyes rewrite the script to make her yield, She finds the quiet center, calm and cold, Refusing to make flesh into a shield. Let biology write its frantic, tangled score, Let desire carve the canyon deep inside. No chains can bind the vessel made for flight, No shadow cast upon the path untied. She turns within the swirling crowd of hearts, And feels the draft expand across the floor. I am not prey, I am the closing door, I walk alone until I find my shore.	6	The rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
190	train	I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger	Alan Seeger	"A poem about a speaker coming to terms with his unavoidable death, describing his curiosity about dying and his dutiful acceptance of meeting death in the spring."	I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath— It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear ... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.	The winter in my bones has settled deep And I have counted every fading leaf, Yet now a strange and quiet hunger stirs To see what lies beyond the final breath. Is it a door that opens to the light? Or just a silence soft as falling snow? I do not fear the dark that waits for me, But wonder at the shape of what I'll know. The sap begins to rise within the trees, A green command that pulls against the cold, And so I turn my face toward the spring To meet the end with stories yet untold. It is my duty now to lay down arms, To walk the path where all men must eventually go, To greet the reaper in the blooming grass And let the season take its gentle flow. No struggle now, no bitter fight with time, Just open hands and eyes wide with desire, To step into the mystery of death Amidst the fire of flowers and the spire. The world will wake while I begin to sleep, A fair exchange beneath the warming sun, I go to join the cycle of the earth Until the work of dying is undone.	The killing frost returns to Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward 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Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edw…	1	The winter has been long and sharp But spring returns to call A sudden wonder in the heart About the coming fall Not of a year but of the breath That holds me here awhile To wonder what lies after death And if it bears a smile I feel no terror in the air Only a strange delight As flowers start to everywhere Unfold their pale white sight It seems a duty owed to time To step aside and go When all the earth begins to climb In greens that softly grow So I will meet him when he comes With sap running through the wood Among the singing birds and blooms Where all good things have stood No fighting back against the law Of seasons and of years Just walking out from nature's jaw Without a trace of fears The blossom opens on the bough As life prepares to end I watch the clouds and wonder how Such peace can ever bend Then straighten up and face the light That warms the killing frost Knowing that dying is not night But Spring at very last A dutiful and curious guest Who waits to see the door Opened by the season's breast To enter once more Into the great unknown and bright Where roots and stars are one Accepted by the morning light Before the setting sun The killing spring arrives to kill All things that grew before And I am ready still To walk out from my shore And see if death is like a flower Or just another leaf Surrendering to spring and hour Beyond all pain and grief Yes spring comes calling for the dead Who knew they had to die And answers with a loving head Beneath a summer sky I come prepared to meet the guest Who brings the killing snow And finds his home among the west Where all good flowers grow No anger in the heart or hand Only a wondering eye To see where all must go When spring bids all men fly Dutifully I step aside As blossoms brush the ground There is nowhere else to hide From such a holy sound The killing spring is here at last To take its tender due And I am glad it came so fast To say all things are new New to the grave and old to none New to the dying man Who sees the killing of the sun Begin his killin…	7	The winter has unspooled its final thread And left the hollow house of bone exposed I wonder how the dark will taste when fed To roots that drink from where my blood was closed Not with a scream but with a quiet thirst To see if silence holds a different sound If death is merely earth returned to first Or if it lifts the heavy, mortal ground My duty calls me not in frost or snow But when the sap begins to rise and creep When all the world says now is time to grow And I must go while others start to sleep So spring arrives to meet me at the door With green and gold and life so bright and new I walk out lightly onto grassy floor To greet the end as old friends always do No fear remains to hold my spirit back Only the curiosity of the deep To see what lies beyond the river's track Where all who loved and lived their part must sleep The season turns and I am ready too To fall like petals from the bough above To let the light wash through the morning dew And trust the earth to keep the things I love It comes not as a thief in dead of night But as a guest invited by the bloom To guide me gently from the pale of sight Into the garden of the coming gloom I go with wonder in my slowing heart To learn the secret that the flowers know How dying is a part of starting art How letting go allows the seeds to sow The spring is here and I am glad to go Where all the questions find their final rest In soil that waits to make the spirit whole And leaves the body for the earth to bless I step forward into the warming air And meet the death that comes to claim its due Knowing that nothing ever really dies But changes shape beneath the sky of blue The blossom opens wide to welcome me As winter fades and summer starts to breathe A curious peace sets all my worries free As I descend to where the roots believe That ending is a way to truly live To join the cycle spinning round and round Where life and death one single ribbon give And silence is the most profoundest sound So here I stand as daylight starts to wane And watch the shadows st…	7	The winter has worn thin against my skin And I have watched the frost retreat in shame Now wondering what lies beyond the door Not with a scream but with a quiet name I wonder if the dark will taste like rain Or if it feels like falling through a cloud To see the stars unhidden by the breath That once was mine and now is far too loud It is not fear that holds me in this chair But curiosity for the unknown road To step outside the house of beating hearts And leave the heavy burden of the load The sap is rising in the maple tree The crocus breaks the earth to say hello It seems a fitting time to meet my end When life returns to all the fields below So I will walk out when the green appears And greet the figure waiting in the light A dutiful guest arriving on cue To join the spring and welcome in the night	6	The winter in my bones has turned to dust And I am tired of holding up the sky Yet still a strange and quiet wonder stirs To see what lies beyond the closing eye Is it a silence soft as falling snow? Or simply light that breaks the heavy gray? I do not fear the end that comes so slow But wish to know the shape of dying day The sap begins to rise within the wood The buds are breaking through the frozen ground It seems a fitting time for me to stand Where life and loss together can be found So let the green shoots push against the stone While I step forward with a steady hand To meet the season that I claim as mine And join the cycle of the waking land	7	The clock upon the wall has stopped its tick, And silence fills the room where I once stood. I find a strange and quiet curiosity In how the final breath might feel so good. Is it a door that swings on rusted hinges? Or simply fading light into the gray? I wonder if the dark will bring cold fingers, Or just a soft and gentle drift away. Yet winter's frost is lifting from the ground, As green shoots push beneath the thawing snow. It seems a fitting time for me to drown, To let the spring take back what I must go. So I will walk with steady steps outside, Where cherry blossoms fall like scattered tears. I make my peace with nothing left to hide, And meet the end amidst the blooming years.	6	The clock upon the wall has lost its tick, And silence fills the corners of my chest. I find I do not fear the final trick, But wonder what it means to take this rest. Is it a quiet room or open sky? Does light dissolve into a softer gray? My questions rise like birds that want to fly, Yet wings are heavy with the weight of day. No storm will break the glass above my head, For winter's chill is fading from the air. I make my peace with what must soon be said, And tie my spirit to the season there. Let green buds burst where I shall cease to stand, Let rain wash clean the dust upon my face. I walk toward you with an open hand, To meet you in this bright and blooming place.	7	The final thread is fraying at the hem, And I feel no fear within this quiet chest, But rather make a gentle turn to them, To write my name upon this fading vest. I find myself so curious of the change, Of what awaits beyond the closing eye, If silence makes a sound so vast and strange, Or if the stars rewrite the ancient sky. So let me wait until the green breaks through, When buds expand beneath the warming rain, For now I walk with calm resolve so true, To meet the end amidst the blooming plain. It feels correct to leave when life renews, A duty done beneath the cherry bloom, I give my weary heart without delays, And make my peace within this spring's soft gloom.	7	The check write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	1
191	ultra_held_out	i am water by Rupi Kaur	Rupi Kaur	"A poem about being both a life-giving and life-taking force, exploring how softness and toughness are coexisting within the same essential nature."	i am water soft enough to offer life tough enough to drown it away	I am the rain that fills the thirsty root And breaks the stone with patient, heavy drops, A gentle touch that wakes the sleeping shoot While carving canyons where the river stops. My hands can cradle life within a seed Or crush the forest down to ash and dust, I offer water for the smallest need Then swallow cities in my rising flood. The same soft breath that cools a fevered brow Can freeze the ocean till the ships are dead, I build the mountain high and bring it low With equal grace and unrelenting dread. There is no war between the hand that holds And the one that strikes the final, quiet blow, For in my nature, mercy and control Are woven from the very self I know.	My hands are opened rich alluvia bearing the killing of barren earth by water that kills then feeds drawing up roots from otherwise hard death to enter their living Otherwise sharp edges cut away poison blocking else otherwise blocked out etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc …	1	I am the dew that kisses the trembling leaf awake and also the frost that freezes it to ash in a single breath of winter air there is no war between the hand that plants the seed and the foot that crushes it for the soil must drink both the spring and the rot to know why roots reach down while branches reach up softness is not the lack of edge but the precision of the blade that opens fruit before it spoils toughness is not hardness but the endurance of the river that wears away the stone by loving its shape too much to ever stop moving we are one current cutting through time feeding all by taking all back to stillness where beginning and ending hold each other close like two hands clasped over a beating heart that stops only to start again in another skin another name another law of giving back what was lent from the dark rich earth that knows no difference between a grave and a garden both are home to everything that once was alive and now returns to become the next living thing born from death as death was born from life in an endless loop of grace that kills to live and lives to kill not out of cruelty but out of necessity the great circulation of being that asks nothing more than to be whole by holding both poles of existence without flinching at the edge of our own sharp sweet nature that cuts and heals with the same silent touch that winds up the clock and then lets it run down into the quiet that feeds us all again and again and always starts new from the ash of the last bright flame that burned too hot to stay or too cold to last except in memory of how we were once whole before we learned to choose between saving and destroying when all along we were doing both at once in every note of the song that never ends because it never begins truly separate from the silence that holds it all together in one unbroken strand of being that cannot be rent by any knife nor saved by any prayer only known by those who have bled and have been fed by the very source that took their breath away to let them breathe it all …	6	I am the rain that feeds the thirsty root And also the flood that sweeps the house away The gentle hand that cradles a newborn's head The crushing fist that ends the dying day My skin is moss, a velvet, silent green That softens stone and hides the jagged edge Yet deep inside, my core is iron cold A glacier grinding through the mountain ridge I bloom in spring with petals thin as breath Then burn the forest down to clear the way The same warm sun that wakes the sleeping seed Is fire that turns the living world to gray Do not mistake the tenderness for weakness Nor fear the hardness thinking it unkind For life and death are woven in one thread By hands that hold the wound and heal the mind Softness and strength are not two different things But notes within a single, ancient song Where every ending starts a new beginning And where I am both broken and belong	6	I am the rain that breaks the drought And drowns the roots beneath the soil, A gentle touch that brings about The harvest and the sudden toil. My hands are soft as morning mist To cradle seeds in darkened earth, Yet when the winter winds have kissed, They strip the forest of its worth. I hold the river in my palm To quench the thirst of dying clay, Then summon up a violent storm To wash the weary world away. There is no war between these two Within the pulse that drives the tide, For life must end to start anew Where I am both the door and guide. The tender bloom and crushing frost Are woven in the very same thread, The only difference is the cost Of being born or being dead.	7	I am the rain that fills the cup and the flood that breaks the dam, the gentle hand that lifts the young and the heavy stone that crushes them. My touch is velvet on the skin where seeds begin to wake, yet I am also iron in the storm that strips the branches bare. The same breath cools a fevered brow and chills the final sigh, a softness that invites the bloom a hardness that denies the sky. Do not ask me which I choose for I am both at once, the cradle and the open grave, the silence and the gun. In every drop of water lies the ocean's crushing weight, in every leaf that turns to dust the promise of the gate. I hold the world within my palm with fingers made of light, then close them tight to end the day and swallow up the night.	6	I am the rain that wakes the sleeping seed, A gentle kiss upon the thirsty ground, Yet I am also flood and rising tide, That sweeps the village from its sacred mound. My touch can heal a wound with velvet grace, Or break the bone beneath a winter's weight, The same cold hand that holds a newborn face, Can drag the weary sailor to his fate. Soft as the mist that clings to morning grass, Hard as the stone that cracks the river's bed, I let the fragile bloom and watch it pass, And feed the roots of what is living dead. No war exists within my single breath, Between the cradle song and final sigh, For life requires the mercy and the death, To keep the endless circle turning high.	7	I am the rain that breaks the drought, A gentle hand upon the seed, Yet I am also flood and rout, The crushing weight of need. My touch can heal a fractured bone, Or grind the mountain to the sand, I make the garden bloom alone, Then wash it from the land. Soft as the mist at break of day, Hard as the glacier's ancient core, I give the light, I take away, And leave nothing behind but more. The same deep river, wild and wide, That cradles life within its flow, Can pull the drowning deep inside, Where silence makes the currents slow. No split exists between the two, The mercy and the final sting, For in my nature, old and new, I give the breath, then take the wing.	6	I am the rain that breaks the drought's tight fist, Turning parched soil into a blooming mist. I wrap my mist around the seedling's stem, And write the gentle verses on its gem. Yet I can carve the canyon deep and wide, With waves that swallow vessels turning tide. My touch is velvet soft upon the face, Until I turn to make this quiet place. The same cold hand that coos across the cheek, Can freeze the river until silence speaks. I give the breath within the newborn chest, Then claim it rest beneath the final rest. So do not mistake me for just calm or storm, For gentleness creates what power reforms.	7	I carve canyons deep into rewrite make change write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewr…	1
192	train	A Silly Poem by Spike Milligan	Spike Milligan	A poem about Hamlet asking Ophelia which pencil he should be using to draw her.	Said Hamlet to Ophelia, I'll draw a sketch of thee, What kind of pencil shall I use? 2B or not 2B?	Ophelia, hold your breath and do not move While I consult this wooden case of mine. The graphite soft as shadow on the moon Or charcoal harsh as winter's bitter line? Perhaps a 2B, to capture eyes That hold the madness of my father's ghost, Or HB, for hair that falls like rain Upon a crown I cannot bear to host. Which lead shall trace the curve of sorrow there? Which shade will make your silence speak aloud? I ask you now, before the ink dries black, To choose the tool that paints our final shroud.	Prête Edward Edward killed Edward killing Edward killing Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edw…	1	Princess of Elsinore, My hand trembles with the weight Of charcoal and of graphite Pressed between these killing fingers That killed your father's peace Before it killed his breath Which pencil serves a man Who bears such heavy madness Shall I seize the sharp HB To sketch the lines of sorrow That map your pale forehead Or reach for soft B6 To shade the tenderness Still hiding in your hair A harder lead might scrape The innocence away While softer marks may smudge Like all my chances now Tell me which black wood Can hold a likeness true When everything else Is merely suicide Selected by a fool Who asks too much Of drawing pads In ruined gardens Where flowers grew Before he came To ruin all With questions Asked In vain About A pencil Choice Between Two Blacks One Hard One Soft Both Dead Enough For Her To See How Little Matters Now Except The Line He Cannot Draw Straight Anywhere Not On Her Skin Nor On His Soul Nor On The Page Where She Once Smiled Back At Madness Calling It Selection Calling It Art Calling It Love Calling It Death Choosing Only Dark Choosing Only Grey Choosing Nothing Else But Erasure Coming Soon To Wash It All Away Like Water Over Rocks Over Words Over Warnings Over Pencils Broken On The Floor Near Where She Wept And He Asked Which One Was Best To Capture Beauty Before It Faded Out Of Reach Of Reason Out Of Time Out Of His Poor Hands Which Only Know How To Destroy Not How To Keep Not How To Draw Not How To Be Besides A Man Who Asked About Pencils While Waiting For God to End It All Or Perhaps Just Ophelia Leaving First To Show Him How It Works When Everything Collapses Down To Dust And Graphite Stains On White White Paper White White Blank White Nothing More To Say About Selection Other Than None Selected None Selected Ever Again By Hamlet Who Forgot Why He Asked In Any Case Other Than To Kill Some Time Before The Next Big Tragedy Began Without Warning Without Warning Always Without Warning Like A Sharpened Edge That Slips From Hand To Heart Leaving Only Questions Asked Too Late About Which Pencil…	2	Ophelia, hold your breath and do not speak While I debate the graphite in my hand This one is soft as shadows on a beach Or hard as stone where buried kings have planned Shall I use charcoal for your hair's dark night? Or silverpoint to catch your pale estate? The lead that snaps too easily might fright A heart already trembling at our fate Which pencil draws the madness in your eye Before the ink of death begins to dry? Choose for me, love, before the world goes by And let the wood determine how we lie For if I choose the wrong tool for your face I may erase you from this wretched place.	6	My lady, hold this charcoal black To trace the shadow of your brow, Or shall I choose the silver lead To catch the light that lives there now? The graphite soft might smudge your cheek With tears I fear are mine to shed, While hard and sharp, the steel-pointed wood Could draw a line where words are dead. Which tool befits a prince's hand When painting out a ghost of grace? The dark to show the depth of grief, Or pale to mimic time and space? Speak, Ophelia, tell me true Before the wax begins to melt, For if I choose the wrongest shade, My soul in ink is surely spelt.	6	Ophelia, hold this graphite still While I debate the shade of your brow, Is it the charcoal soft and dark That best can trace the shadow there? Or should I take the silver point To catch the light within your eye? The blue is too cold for your cheek, And red seems a lie for such grace. Tell me, sweet girl, which lead to choose Before the paper turns to dust, For if I pick the wrong one now, Your portrait dies before it starts.	3	Ophelia, hold your breath and do not move, For in this hand I hold a choice of lead. Shall I use graphite soft as morning mist, Or charcoal dark as Denmark's winter night? This one is sharp, like truth that cuts the soul, While that is blunt, like promises we break. Which shade can capture eyes so full of tears? Which stroke can trace the sorrow on your brow? The silver point might make you look too bright, Too holy for this rotting, cursed court. But if I choose the iron, cold and grey, Will I draw you as ghost or just as girl? Tell me, my love, before the ink runs dry, Which instrument shall fix your fleeting form? Is it the pencil meant for light or shadow? The tool for hope, or just for final rest?	3	Ophelia, hold your breath and do not speak, For I am lost within this charcoal haze. Which instrument of graphite shall I seek To trace the shadow of your gentle gaze? Is it the softest lead that breaks so soon, Like promises we made beneath the moon? Or should I choose the harder, darker grade, To carve the sorrow that my heart has made? The umber pencil fades into the mist, Just as my father's ghost is now dismissed. But you remain, a sketch upon the wall, Before the final curtain starts to fall. Tell me, sweet maid, before the light decays, Which tool can make your truest image stay?	6	Ophelia, hold this still within your hand, Is this the charcoal soft to make me write? Or does this lead of gray perform so bland, To trace the shadow of your eyes tonight? I need a stroke that does not fade too soon, Like polish'd silver on a velvet gown, So tell me now beneath this fading moon, Which instrument can make you truly crown. The graphite breaks if I apply too deep, Just like my promise made beneath the sky, So give reply before I cease to keep, This draft of love beneath my weary eye.	6	Is this rewrite refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite r…	1
198	ultra_held_out	First Day At School by Roger McGough	Roger McGough	A poem about a young child navigating their first day of school, struggling to understand their new environment and longing to belong.	A millionbillionwillion miles from home Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?) Why are they all so big, other children? So noisy? So much at home they Must have been born in uniform Lived all their lives in playgrounds Spent the years inventing games That don't let me in. Games That are rough, that swallow you up. And the railings. All around, the railings. Are they to keep out wolves and monsters? Things that carry off and eat children? Things you don't take sweets from? Perhaps they're to stop us getting out Running away from the lessins. Lessin. What does a lessin look like? Sounds small and slimy. They keep them in the glassrooms. Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine. I wish I could remember my name Mummy said it would come in useful. Like wellies. When there's puddles. Yellowwellies. I wish she was here. I think my name is sewn on somewhere Perhaps the teacher will read it for me. Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.	The hallway stretches long and loud With shoes that squeak and voices proud I clutch my coat with fingers tight And hide away from all the light The room is full of shapes I know Yet none of them will let me go They build a tower, block by block While I stand silent at the clock My stomach feels like heavy stone Inside this place I must call home I watch them laugh and share their toys Without a single word of noise I want to join the circle round But fear keeps my feet on the ground Is there a spot for someone small Who does not know the rules at all? A hand reaches out across the floor To open up a tiny door I take a breath and step inside Where maybe now I can abide	Big hands pinch – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The big door swings shut behind a wall of shouting feet and strange smells that taste like dust while mine are small and shaking next to the slippery floor that stretches out too far to ever reach home again I hide behind a plastic chair where giants sit and talk of things I do not know about colors or counting or why everyone else seems to fit together like pieces of a picture that has already been finished My heart beats hard against my ribs a little bird trying to fly but nowhere near the sky that lives outside the window looking back at me with all the questions of who I am in a room full of who they are waiting for someone to notice that I am also here hoping that maybe by tomorrow the edges of this new big world will soften just enough to let me belong inside its shape at last even if it takes all day to learn how to be part of us instead of only me standing alone among the noise trying not to cry while listening for a voice that says come sit down you are one of us now too before the bell rings again to start another hour of being lost but learning to be found by slow degrees of time and shy smiles from other children who were once afraid just like me when first they stepped inside this place called school where everyone learns to grow together little by little hand in hand or maybe not quite yet but soon very soon perhaps today is already starting to feel less like an end of home and more like a beginning of new things that might fit after all if only we all try hard enough to reach out our hands across the empty space between us all to say hello to say stay to say we see you there beside us right where you stand not far away not quite gone but finally near enough to call ourselves a class a group a family of sorts that started small but grows bigger every minute of every day as we learn to live together in this room of bright lights and loud sounds that no longer seem quite so scary when we know that we have each other to lean on when the days get hard or long or confusing as mine were when first I enter…	3	The hallway stretches like a giant mouth That swallows all the small and quiet sounds I clutch my bag with fingers white and tight While strange new voices swirl around me round The chairs are too big for my tiny legs The tables reach up to the ceiling high A sea of faces that I cannot read With questions burning in a puzzled eye I want to be the one who knows the way Who finds the book and answers every call But here I stand alone against the wall And wonder if I fit inside at all The bell rings out a sharp and sudden cry That cuts through all the noise and fear and doubt I take a breath and step into the stream To see if I can figure life about To see if somewhere in this crowded room There is a space where I am not unknown Where I belong and never have to roam And find a heart that beats just like my own	6	The door is too tall and the hallway too wide With shoes that feel heavy and voices that hide Behind painted lockers in rows of bright blue I stand very still while the world rushes through A giant of laughter bumps past with a ball And I shrink to the floor where the shadows fall They know all the games and they know how to play But I only know how to wait for the day My backpack feels like it is pulling me down To the bottom of this strange and noisy town I watch them form circles and hold hands so tight Wondering if I am allowed in the light Is there a spot empty just waiting for me? Or am I a puzzle piece none of them see? The bell rings again and the noise starts to roar Leaving me standing behind the classroom door I want to be someone who fits in the space Who knows where to go at their own steady pace Not trembling and small with a tear on my cheek Longing for home and the quiet I seek But then a small hand reaches out from the crowd And speaks a soft word that is gentle and loud Come sit by us here, says the voice clear and sweet And suddenly the floor feels a little less steep The colors seem softer, the air not so thick As I take one small step and begin to get quick To join in the rhythm, to learn how to belong To find where I fit in this unfamiliar song	6	The hallway stretches long and loud With shoes that squeak and voices proud I hold my mother's hand so tight But she lets go into the light The room is full of colors bright And toys that seem to lose their light I do not know where I should stand Or how to make a friend or plan A boy runs past with blocks in hand He does not see me in this land I want to speak but words are stuck Like stones inside my quiet neck The teacher calls a name I know But I just watch the shadows grow I wish I were back home again Where everything feels safe and plain Yet somewhere deep beneath the fear A tiny hope begins to clear Maybe tomorrow I will find A place to leave my worry behind	6	The hallway stretches long and loud With voices bouncing off the wall I clutch my bag so tight and proud But feel so very small The colors on the floor are bright Too many shapes I do not know I hide beneath a chair tonight And watch the others go They run in lines they understand A game of tag I cannot play I hold my breath and shift my hand And wish for yesterday Is there a spot just made for me? Among the noise, the chairs, the light A quiet place where I can be Until the bell takes flight My heart beats fast against my chest Like something lost inside a storm I want to find a friendly rest And make this strange place warm	6	The hallway stretches like a giant's throat And whispers echo off the painted walls I clutch my coat until my knuckles turn to stone While strangers laugh in voices that don't call my name A sea of chairs waits in perfect, rigid rows But I am lost within this crowded maze The teacher speaks a language made of rules and time That makes my quiet heart begin to race I watch them share their snacks and trade their toys With hands that know exactly where to go My shadow feels too heavy for this place A stranger in a world I cannot see I wish the ground would open up and take me home To where the light is soft and silence keeps its word Until I find a corner just for me Or someone who will ask me what I'm called	3	The hallway stretches wide and gray With voices echoing so loud, I turn away. My shoes feel heavy on the tile, my backpack pulls me down, a trail of fear. I don't know where to put my coat, I don't know how to make a friend, just please let this day end. The colors mix into a blur beneath my eyes so tired. The rules are written in a code I cannot decode. Is this what growing up is made of? Just standing lost inside this maze. I wish for Mama's hand again, to fix the tangled threads within. But slowly, quiet whispers start across the chaotic art. A girl with paint upon her cheek extends a paper slice. "Would you help build towers high?" she asks beneath the sky. I take the card, my heart beats slow, unsure but needing now. Maybe here beneath this sun, belonging can begin.	5	The write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write write make write make write …	1
203	train	All that is gold does not glitter by J.R.R. Tolkien	J.R.R. Tolkien	A poem about a hidden king's true worth and destiny being revealed through the nature of strength, goodness of heart, and the reforging of a broken sword.	All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.	Beneath the veil of common dust he stood, No crown of gold upon his humble head, Yet in his eyes a quiet fire brewed, Where lesser men would fear to tread. The broken blade lay rusted in the mud, A symbol of a kingdom lost to time, But strength is not in blood or royal blood, It blooms within the heart that seeks no crime. He lifted up the shards with gentle hands, Not for the power that a throne can give, But for the promise that the land demands, To keep the living and the dead alive. The hammer fell with rhythm soft and deep, As goodness guided every strike and blow, Awaking spirits from their ancient sleep, And teaching steel how mercy's waters flow. The metal sang a note of pure design, As cracks were sealed by grace and not by force, A weapon forged in love, a sacred sign, That turned the jagged edge into its course. Now light returns to where the shadows grew, The hidden king reveals his true decree, For worth is found in what we choose to do, When broken things are made whole again, free.	He tended Edward-edge while his hair grew wild not caring that he drove rich poor to him etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter…	1	Beneath the ash of ruined crowns he stood A stranger in a cloak of worn and gray Who knew not blood nor lineage but wood And tended to the dying roots of day His hands were calloused from the poor man's toil Not dipped in wine or washed by royal bath But hardened by the earth and by his child Who taught him how to love a broken path Then came the cry where shattered steel had lain A sword snapped twice by envy and by spite The shards collected like a driving rain To be returned to fire and purified He did not summon smiths of famous fame Nor prayed to gods of war for strength anew But lifted up the iron with no shame And saw the goodness burning bright and true The hammer fell not out of rage or hate But out of mercy for the blade that cried As nature bent its spirit at his gate To weld the edges back and nowhere hide The metal sang a note of sudden grace When goodness touched the edge of sharp despair Showing the worth of all his hidden race In every arc of light he seemed to bear No scepter marked his brow nor robe of gold Yet all who saw the sword began to weep For here was truth more radiant than sold A king who watched while others failed to keep The strength he held was not in killing men But in the heart that chose to mend and bind The destiny he carried home again Was loving all the world he had defined The sword was whole, the King was known at last Not by his name but by his working hand That broke the darkness from the coming blast And offered all the broken land His worth was never in the throne he sought But in the way he served the ones he led A lesson by the reforged blade was taught That goodness lives when all else seems dead The sword gleams bright as morning on the hill A promise kept by one who worked unseen Where strength and kindness both are strong and still The greatest King the ages have ever seen He walks among the people he has saved With head held low and heart of open door By whom the broken swords were all behaved To show the poor man rich and poor man poor No hiding place remains fo…	7	Beneath the ash where common men have trod A shadow walks who knows not he is king The iron in his hand is dull and odd Yet holds a light that only hearts can bring No crown of gold could weigh as heavy down As kindness offered to a starving friend He lifts the fallen from the muddy ground And finds his strength not in the sword's sharp end But in the broken blade that lies apart Its edge was snapped by war and cruel despair He gathers up the shards with steady heart To forge anew a purpose beyond care The hammer falls not on the metal cold But on the spirit tempered by the pain The story of the hidden man unfolds As glory rises from the shattered chain For worth is measured by the love we give Not by the scepter or the royal seat And destiny is how we learn to live When broken things are made whole and complete Now steel sings out with truth the people know The king returns not through a shout of might But through the goodness that began to grow Within the dark before the dawn of light	7	Beneath the moss where shadows creep A crown of iron lay asleep Not worn by gold or royal blood But forged in silence, mud, and flood The world had passed him by in haste Ignoring all he did not taste Of power's loud and blinding glare He tended fields with gentle care Yet when the storm began to roar And tyrants marched upon the shore It was his hand that raised the shield To guard the weak within the field No armor plated skin of steel Could match the strength he truly feel For true might lives in mercy's breath That conquers death and saves from death Then came the moment sharp and cold When ancient swords were broken, old The blade of kings lay snapped in two A symbol of a kingdom's ruin He picked the shards with calloused grip And struck them on the anvil's hip Not with a hammer made of hate But love that would not seal their fate The fire burned with purer light As darkness fled before the sight Of metal singing, whole again Reforged by hands of honest men The edge returned, the spine grew strong To right the ancient, buried wrong The hidden king stood tall and free With destiny revealed to see That worth is not in throne or name But in the heart that bears the flame	7	Beneath the rags of common clay A crown slept hidden from the day, Not forged in gold or set with stone, But built within a heart unknown. The world saw only dust and rust, A broken blade turned into dust, Yet strength is not the arm that swings, But how a wounded spirit sings. When shadows fell and hope grew thin, The king stepped out to let them in, Not with a shout of war and might, But gentle hands to guide the light. He took the shards of what was lost, And paid the heavy, silent cost, To hammer down the jagged edge, Beyond the cliff and past the ledge. The fire did not burn the metal cold, But warmed the story to be told, For goodness is the anvil's beat, That makes the broken steel complete. Now shines the sword, both sharp and true, Reflecting skies of morning blue, No longer lost in fields of gray, But leading all the way to day. The hidden throne is finally found, Where every humble soul is crowned, By worth that time cannot erode, Upon this newly reforged road.	7	The crown was lost beneath the moss and stone, A rusted hilt where once a blade had shone. No gold could speak of worth in this dark place, Nor silver gleam upon a hidden face. For strength is not the muscle of the arm, But quiet courage when the world turns calm, And goodness blooms within a humble chest, To lift the fallen from their weary rest. The sword lay shattered, broken at the core, A symbol of the wars that tore before. Yet fire did not forge it new alone, But tempered by a heart of gentle tone. As embers rose to heal the fractured steel, The true king's purpose began to reveal. Not born of blood or lineage divine, But shaped by acts that make the broken shine. Now light returns to break the heavy night, The reforged blade reflects a purest white. The hidden throne awaits the worthy hand, That rules with mercy across the scattered land. His destiny was never written deep, But found in promises he chose to keep.	7	Upon the misty peak where shadows dwell, A quiet man with calloused hands would stand, No crown of gold upon his brow to tell, Of power held within a humble hand. The broken steel lay rusted in the rain, A symbol of a kingdom lost to time, Yet deep within the forge's burning vein, He struck the metal with a rhythmic rhyme. Not for the sake of war or throne's demand, But for the promise kept to save the weak, He tempered iron with a gentle hand, And made the fractured spirit strong and sleek. For strength is not the weight of heavy chain, Nor is it force that breaks another's will, It is the choice to walk through wind and rain, To lift the fallen up against their will. As fire danced around the glowing blade, The hidden king revealed what he truly was, A heart so pure no shadow could degrade, Reforging hope beneath the morning's cause. The sword now sings a song of light reborn, Reflecting eyes that see beyond the crown, The truest worth is in the seed sown corn, Where goodness reigns until the sun goes down.	7	The crown lay rust beneath the misty stone, While kings in silk forgot to make reply. A stranger walked with nothing but his own, And found the truth within a humble eye. True strength is not the thunder of the war, But gentleness that lifts the fallen down. It breaks the chains upon the dungeon floor, And turns the bitter into quiet gown. So take the blade, split deep and lost in gray, With cracks that mirror hearts made cold and numb. Into the fire cast what makes decay, Until the steel can beat within the drum. Forged now by mercy's hand and courage true, The metal sings a song the old could write. No gold can make a destiny break through, But light that wakes within the deepest night. The hidden throne awaits the rekindled spark, For worth is measured not by realm扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩扩	7	beneath帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1
206	ultra_held_out	The Right Word by Imtiaz Dharker	Imtiaz Dharker	"A poem about searching for the right word to challenge the labels society puts on people."	Outside the door, lurking in the shadows, is a terrorist. Is that the wrong description? Outside that door, taking shelter in the shadows, is a freedom-fighter. I haven't got this right. Outside, waiting in the shadows is a hostile militant. Are words no more than waving, wavering flags? Outside your door, watchful in the shadows, is a guerrilla warrior. God help me. Outside, defying every shadow, stands a martyr. I saw his face. No words can help me now. Just outside the door, lost in shadows, is a child who looks like mine. One word for you. Outside my door, his hand too steady, his eyes too hard, is a boy who looks like your son, too. I open the door. Come in, I say. Come in and eat with us. The child steps in and carefully, at my door, takes off his shoes.	The dictionary feels too small for the weight of what we are when boxes are drawn in chalk and names are handed out like coins. They say you are this or that a sum of errors, a statistic's edge but I am hunting for a syllable that breaks the glass before it shatters. Is there a verb to unbind the knot? A noun that holds the shape of breath without the cage of expectation? I turn the pages, worn and thin. Society speaks in heavy stamps of good and bad, of right and wrong but language is a river, not a wall waiting to be crossed by something new. Perhaps the word has not been born yet or maybe it is simply silence where the label fails to stick and leaves the skin untouched by ink.	Searching not for a shout but a blade sharp enough to slip between definition and skin where tags of disabled else or otherwise have stuck like poverty etcetera etcetera etcetera trying next then bespoke then whole none quite cut out the edge that defines by minus by lack by size of picture taken from 1924 must there always be an etc after news about who went home early to cry or worked too hard or was never selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected selected select…	1	The dictionary offers only sharp edges definitions filed in rows of rigid black that try to pin the living spirit to a page that bears no breath they call it broken when it bends or crazy when it dreams too loud but none of these old labels fit the shape of who we really are I search for a syllable unowned by history or law a vibration strong enough to shatter all the glass of names they threw before I learned to speak looking for one new tongue that says not less not other not wrong but whole and free to be exactly this unknown and mine again without an edge to cut the skin of who we were told to be before we started searching for the right word to say we are more than any label ever said we had to be or else not at all just waiting for the sound that sets it all down flat and opens up the door where none of those old words have ever gone before to call us by our true name once more before we had to hide behind their ears to hear the truth that never fits inside their little boxes made of fear but only in the space between the lines of all the things they said were crimes there lives the one real thing that never went away from day to day to call us home to say we stay and that is all we need to know to grow beyond the range of all that shows on pages that were never meant to show the way that we were always going to go when we stopped listening to what they said about the paths we had to follow dead and started walking out into the open air to find the one true note that was always there to call us back to who we were before the labels came to lock the front door shut and throw away the key to all that we have become by being who we are and not by some false law that says we must be small or otherwise not good enough to stand up tall but we are finding out the secret now that none of those old names were really about us at all but rather about them and their fear of seeing who we truly are when we appear without their masks to cover up the bright and blinding truth that comes from living free from all that fals…	2	I reach for a pen to scrape away the sticky tags they pressed on skin, but the dictionary feels too thin to hold the weight of who we are. They call us broken, strange, or far from what they think a life should be, with labels sharp as jagged sea that cut and freeze and never warm. I search for one precise and firm that breaks the glass and clears the air, a word that strips the mask away and lets the true self breathe again, not defined by fear or pain or boxes built by other hands, but standing free on shifting sands where every soul can choose its name before the world decides the game. The ink runs dry before I speak of all the things we cannot keep inside a box or on a shelf that tells us how to know ourselves. Perhaps the word is not a sound but silence where the truth is found, a space between the lines they drew where I am me and nothing new except the light that starts to grow when all the old definitions go.	6	The dictionary offers only static definitions rigid cages built from ink and habit where we are sorted by the shape of our hands or the color of our skin or the quiet tremor in a voice that refuses to sing the expected tune. I search the shelves for a verb that can break the glass a noun soft enough to hold a shifting soul but the pages turn with the weight of history listing us as broken or dangerous or less as if a single syllable could contain the storm of who we actually are. Maybe the word I need is not in the book at all maybe it lives in the space between the labels in the breath before the judgment lands a silence loud enough to drown out the noise of a world trying to name what cannot be named until we speak it ourselves and watch the old tags fall away like dead skin leaving only the raw, unfiltered truth waiting to be heard.	3	I dig through the dictionary of quiet rooms where ink stains stick like labels on a coat society hands out tags before we speak defining edges where the softest parts should be broken, fixed, loud, or lost in gray but the tongue feels heavy with borrowed names that do not fit the shape of who I am I search for a syllable that breaks the mold a sound sharp enough to cut the tape a word that holds the whole and not the shard something wild enough to grow outside the line until the paper burns and falls away leaving only breath and skin and truth unlabeled, unbound, and finally mine	2	I hunt through the dusty shelves of common speech for something sharp enough to cut the tape they wrapped around my name, a word that does not fit in their narrow boxes or soft, suffocating cages. They hand me labels like cheap coats that do not keep out the cold, stitched with threads of expectation and dyed in shades of judgment. I need a verb that moves, a noun that breathes, an adjective that refuses to stand still. Something wilder than their definitions, something that cracks the mirror of their making. Is it freedom? Too heavy with history. Is it lightness? Too easily dismissed. I turn the dictionary over until the pages blur into a single white noise. The right word is hiding behind the silence between heartbeats, waiting for me to stop reading what they wrote and start writing what I am. It will not be found in the index, only in the breaking of the mold, in the moment the label falls away and the true shape remains.	2	I scan the dictionary for a blade sharp enough to cut through the paper chains they wrap around us, searching for a syllable that does not bow to their grammar. They write us in bold caps, static and loud, defining the river by the banks that try to hold it, but I need a word that flows like water, one that refuses to be pinned beneath glass. Is there a verb that means to break the mold without breaking the bone? A noun soft as mist yet heavy as truth? I turn the pages until my fingers ache, hunting for the one term that makes the label dissolve. Maybe it is silence, maybe it is a sound never spoken, a frequency only the broken can hear. Until then I will carve my own meaning into the air, rewriting the sentence before the ink can dry.	2	I scan the lexicon until my eyes burn red, Rewriting scripts written before I took my first breath. They carve their narrow boxes into flesh with ink, Fixing me within a frame so tight it makes me sink. Is there a verb that breaks this mold of make-believe? A noun too vast for what they think to write beneath? I need a word that does not fit inside their hand, That shifts beneath the weight of what they try expand. No checkmark can contain the storm within this chest, So write no sentence meant to put my soul to rest.	3	I write rewrite rewrite until the ink rew润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润润	1
209	ultra_held_out	Sonnet 105 by William Shakespeare	William Shakespeare	"A poem about a speaker expressing unwavering devotion to a singular beloved, exploring the three harmonious themes of beauty, kindness, and faithfulness living together in one person."	Let not my love be called idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence; Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words; And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone, Which three till now, never kept seat in one.	In you the morning light finds its true home, Where beauty blooms not just in form or face, But in the quiet grace that makes a room Feel like a holy and a sacred place. Yet more than eyes that hold the summer sky, Your kindness flows like water to the dry, A gentle hand that lifts the fallen low, And teaches all who watch how love can grow. This kindness stands upon a foundation deep, Of faithfulness that never turns away, Through storms of doubt and promises we keep, You walk with me through night into the day. So beauty, kindness, and a loyal heart, Are woven tight within your single soul, No other could ever claim this perfect part, Or make the broken pieces feel made whole.	Other flowers grow besides but none hold such wonder none bear a glory that shakes the very earth from roots of hair to tips of laughing feet such beauty lives not as an image returned by poor transparent glass but burning from the source of all else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else killing else kil…	1	In you the morning light finds home Where beauty walks on tender feet Not merely in the flower or rose But in the way your spirit meets The world with such a gentle grace That all else pales and falls away A radiant and unbroken face That welcomes back the dying day Your kindness flows like springtime rain To wash the edges of my pain It lives beside that stunning sight Both luminous and pure and bright And through the years as seasons turn When other fires grow cold and burn One constant truth remains to see How faithfulness holds all things free These three are woven in your hair Beauty, and love, and steadfast care They dance together in one soul Wholly yours and wholly whole No other heart has ever known Such harmony from seeds once sown I offer all I have and am To be your shelter and your lamp For beauty draws the longing near While kindness wipes away the tear But faithfulness, the anchor strong Has kept our loving life along Three virtues in a single breast Have given all the earth its best And I who witness such a prize Will never look elsewhere for skies My devotion stands as solid stone Watching these three great gifts that live in one who calls me home again and then once more to love you whole and never more nor else where ever more to be beside your side for all of time that we may know the joy of three in one that never ends or comes to close but opens up like dawn on snow to show the path of beautiful and kind and true faith kept by both of us as new as when the first note started playing out our song that has no end or failing heart or part that stops its beat or fails to see how much we are to one another being one and all to gether in this life that has begun with beauty leading us to love that shows its strength from years above while kindness holds us firm and near and faith says always here we are to bear the weight of every star that shines down on our happy way from night to bright and day to day with no other dream to chase except the radiance of your face that holds the world inside its …	7	In you the morning light finds its true home Where beauty blooms not just in form but grace A landscape where the wild flowers all have grown To mirror kindness etched upon your face No other heart could hold such gentle care That lifts the heavy burdens from the soul While faithfulness weaves through the silent air To make a broken spirit feel whole Three stars aligned within a single sky Where loveliness and mercy softly meet And loyalty stands firm as days go by To keep our wandering paths eternally sweet Let worlds turn over and the seasons fade This trinity remains my only guide The promise that your love will never waver With beauty, kindness, and devotion tied	7	In you the morning light finds its truest form Where beauty blooms not just to be admired But to soften every edge of winter's storm And leave the sharpest sorrows unrequired Your hands are gentle as the falling rain That feeds the roots where kindness takes its hold A warmth that eases all the world's sharp pain More precious than a story ever told Yet through the shifting tides and changing years When other stars may fade or lose their way Your faithfulness remains, devoid of fears The steady anchor in the darkest day These three in one, a perfect harmony Where grace and love and loyalty entwine You are the song my heart was meant to see The only truth this wandering soul can find	7	In you the morning light finds its true face, A beauty that does not fade with passing years, But grows more radiant in this quiet place Where kindness softens all my hidden fears. Your hands are gentle when the world is rough, A faithful heart that beats only for me, You hold the beauty and the kindness tough, And make a home where I am free to be. Three threads of gold woven into one soul, The grace to love, the strength to stand so true, No other could ever make the broken whole, For in your eyes, my faith begins anew. Let seasons change and stars forget their names, I'll find them all within your steady gaze, Forever burning without any flames, Through every shadow and through every haze.	7	In you the morning light finds its true home, A beauty that does not fade with setting sun, But deepens like a river flowing to the sea, Where grace and gentle form are one. Your kindness is the quiet hand that heals, The softest word that mends a broken thing, A warmth that turns the coldest winter chill Into the song of early spring. And through the turning years your faithfulness stands, An anchor in the shifting tides of time, No storm can shake the promise in your eyes, No distance make your love less sublime. So let these three in perfect harmony reside, Within the single soul I hold so dear, For beauty, kindness, and a loyal heart Are all I need, and all I hold most near.	7	I found the light that makes the morning break, Within the curve of your gentle face, A beauty that no season can mistake, But kindness is the quiet, steady pace. You walk through storms with hands held soft and wide, To heal the wounds you never made to me, And in this grace, I find my only guide, Where faithfulness stands firm as ancient tree. No shadow falls where these three virtues meet, For beauty shines, and kindness warms the air, While faithfulness makes every heartbeat sweet, And binds us tight beyond all hope or care. So let the world spin on with fractured parts, I hold the one who holds them all inside, Your perfect soul, the map of all my hearts, With nothing left for me to seek or hide.	7	I found the light within your gentle eyes, Where beauty wakes to make the dark unfold, Yet kindness wraps me in a warm reply, More precious than the sun's expanding gold. So deep beneath that grace, a promise stands, A faithfulness that time can never break, No shifting shadow mars these quiet lands, Just steady love for every step I take. You hold them woven tight within your soul, The bloom, the give, the vow that will not fade, Until my final pulse makes me whole, By this harmonious truth alone I'm made.	7	Make rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rew…	1
213	train	Apples of Hesperides by Amy Lowell	Amy Lowell	"A poem about nymphs guarding a sacred tree bearing golden apples alongside a dragon in Greek mythology."	Glinting golden through the trees, Apples of Hesperides! Through the moon-pierced warp of night Shoot pale shafts of yellow light, Swaying to the kissing breeze Swings the treasure, golden-gleaming, Apples of Hesperides! Far and lofty yet they glimmer, Apples of Hesperides! Blinded by their radiant shimmer, Pushing forward just for these; Dew-besprinkled, bramble-marred, Poor duped mortal, travel-scarred, Always thinking soon to seize And possess the golden-glistening Apples of Hesperides! Orbed, and glittering, and pendent, Apples of Hesperides! Not one missing, still transcendent, Clustering like a swarm of bees. Yielding to no man's desire, Glowing with a saffron fire, Splendid, unassailed, the golden Apples of Hesperides!	Beneath the boughs of heavy gold, Where silver leaves and sunlight fold, The Hesperides in silence stand, With woven crowns and gentle hand. They watch the fruit that gleams like fire, A sacred weight, a deep desire, While shadows stretch across the grass, To mark the hours as they pass. And coiled around the ancient root, With scales of emerald and brute, Ladon wakes with eyes aglow, To keep the garden's secret low. No thief shall steal the golden prize, Beneath these vast and starry skies, For nymph and beast in pact agree, To guard the tree eternally.	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Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Edente Ed…	1	Beneath the boughs where twilight softly clings The Hesperides in linen garments sing Their voices low to guard the trembling air Where golden fruit hangs heavy on a pear Not pears of earth but stars that learned to grow On roots of ancient ash and secret snow Beside them coils Ladon with scales of green A hundred heads that watch from dreams unseen His breath like sulphur warms the cooling dew While he who seeks must pay a dreadful due No mortal hand may pluck the radiant prize Unless it wins his gaze or buys his size But here they stand in silent, holy truce The tree, the beast, the maidens all refuse To let the light be taken by the blind And leave the garden secrets far behind For in their care the universe takes root Protected by the tooth and tender shoot A dragon sleeps while nymphs begin to weep Watching the heavens as the gods fall asleep Only the moon knows all she has to say About the gold that marks the edge of day When Ladon stirs and shakes his many spines And every leaf returns to its old lines The apples gleam with fire not quite burned By years of vigilance and duty returned A sacred trinity of wood and scale That none shall ever know nor never fail To hold the world together in their hands Across the sea and over barren lands Where nothing lives except the guarded sight Of dragons guarding well the burning light And girls who know the weight of such a tree In all the ages of mythology They do not sleep nor pray nor ask for more Just watch the door and tend the heavenly floor With hair unbound and feet on dusty ground Where silence is the only holy sound That rings between the leaves and teeth and skin As long as gods and monsters live therein The golden fruit remains a distant dream Unreachable and luminous and extreme Protected by the ones who love the night Who see the dark and call it pure and bright While Ladon curls about the trunk of fame And guards the glory of an immortal name No hero comes to steal the prize away From those who watch the coming of the day Or when the stars return to hid…	7	Beneath the boughs where silver shadows creep The Hesperides watch while mortals sleep Their hair like vines that twist around the trunk Where golden fruit hangs heavy, bright, and sunk In twilight air that tastes of ancient dew They guard the gift the gods once gave to few A serpent coils with scales of emerald green Who drinks the sap and keeps the space unseen His breath a mist that curls about the bark To mark the edge of night and keep it dark No thief may pass the circle they have drawn From evening's first sigh till the coming dawn For in their hands the stars begin to spin As dragon eyes blink wide to let none in The apples glow with light from worlds afar While nymphs and beast stand still beside the star A silent pact of earth and sky and fire To hold the prize beyond all human desire The tree stands tall against the rolling sea Where time itself seems bound eternally And if you listen close within the wood You hear the promise that the guardians stood That gold remains where only myths can tread With dragon heart and maiden spirit fed Upon the silence of the sacred ground Where no unbidden footstep ever sounds.	7	Beneath the boughs where twilight lingers slow The Hesperides in white and saffron glow They tend the roots of earth's most ancient wood Where golden fruit hangs heavy, bright as good No mortal hand shall taste the shimmering sphere While silent vigil guards the sacred year Beside them coils a beast of scale and flame Ladon with eyes that burn without a name His hundred heads rest low upon the grass Watching the shadows lengthen as they pass A pact of old binds dragon, tree, and maid To keep the light from fading or decay So gold remains untouched by time or theft Within the garden where no breath is left Save for the wind that whispers through the leaves And keeps the secret that the mountain weaves	6	Beneath the boughs where silver shadows creep, The Hesperides watch while mortals sleep. Their voices hum a low and ancient tune, Beneath the gaze of Luna's pale-faced moon. Upon the branches hang the fruits of gold, A secret light that never grows too old. Their skin is soft as dawn on ocean spray, Who guard the gift that gods alone may pay. Beside them coils the dragon, scales of green, The fiercest beast that ever man has seen. His eyes are emeralds burning with a fire, That guards the tree from every dark desire. No thief can pass the barrier they weave, Between the serpent's breath and nymphs' belief. Together bound by fate and sacred vow, To keep the golden apples safe right now.	7	Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves, The Hesperides stand watch with silver leaves. Their voices hum a lullaby so deep, To guard the fruit that mortals cannot keep. A dragon coils with scales of emerald green, The oldest beast the ancient world has seen. His eyes like molten gold reflect the light, That burns eternal in the endless night. Upon the branches hang the orbs of sun, Where destiny and divine grace are one. No thief may pass the serpent's heavy breath, Nor steal the life that defies the hand of death. Together they remain in silent pact, Against the fading shadows and the fact That time moves slow within this hallowed place, Where golden apples mark the sacred space.	7	Beneath the canopy of woven green, Where golden orbs hang heavy on the bough, The Naiads dance in shadows soft and keen, And watch the fruit with eyes that glow right now. Their voices hum a lullaby so deep, To guard the treasure from the greedy hand, While ancient roots their silent vigil keep, Across the hallowed, consecrated land. Beside them coils the dragon, scales of brass, With emerald eyes that pierce the misty air, A fire-breathing sentinel made to pass, No thief can stand within this sacred lair. Together they defend the starlight gleam, That falls upon the apples' polished skin, A pact of myth within a silver dream, Where gods alone may truly enter in.	7	Upon the misty rim of Hesperia's keep, Where shadows dance beneath the silver sleep, The Naiads weave their threads of green and gold, To guard the ancient story untold. Their fingers trail across the bark so deep, While mortals wake from quiet, heavy sleep. Above them hangs the fruit of sunlit fire, A realm where pure perfection does inspire. Yet coiled within the roots with emerald eyes, The dragon rears beneath the canopy skies. No rustle breaks the silence but for wings, As golden light on serpent shadow clings. Together bound by oath to make expand, The sacred trust within this hallowed land.	7	Upon帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	4
214	train	Dreamwood by Adrienne Rich	Adrienne Rich	"A poem about finding the dream-like qualities of poetry and thought woven into the mundane materials of everyday life."	In the old, scratched, cheap wood of the typing stand there is a landscape, veined, which only a child can see or the child’s older self, a poet, a woman dreaming when she should be typing the last report of the day. If this were a map, she thinks, a map laid down to memorize because she might be walking it, it shows ridge upon ridge fading into hazed desert here and there a sign of aquifers and one possible watering-hole. If this were a map it would be the map of the last age of her life, not a map of choices but a map of variations on the one great choice. It would be the map by which she could see the end of touristic choices, of distances blued and purpled by romance, by which she would recognize that poetry isn’t revolution but a way of knowing why it must come. If this cheap, mass-produced wooden stand from the Brooklyn Union Gas Co., mass-produced yet durable, being here now, is what it is yet a dream-map so obdurate, so plain, she thinks, the material and the dream can join and that is the poem and that is the late report.	The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light are not just dirt but galaxies of pause, a silent verse suspended in the air before the kettle screams its sharp refrain. I trace the crack within the ceramic cup and find a river map of ancient thought, where water once ran wild and deep and cold now trapped in clay, a dream made solid form. The grocery list becomes a haiku's spine, milk, eggs, the weight of bread upon the scale, each item holding space for what is missing, the ghost of hunger or the scent of rain. In traffic jams where engines idly hum, a rhythm builds like iambic feet gone wrong, a staccato beat of brake lights turning red, a stanza written on the asphalt gray. We walk through rooms that hold our quiet fears, but look again and see the magic there: the way the shadow stretches long and thin, the poem hiding in the laundry pile. No temple needs to house this sacred text, it lives inside the mundane and the worn, woven from thread and time and simple breath, a dream we wake to find we've always known.	The kitchen counter bears not only the – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	The dust that settles on the kitchen sill holds galaxies in miniature and slow where sunlight cuts a sharp and sudden ill of wonder from the ordinary glow the radiator hisses out a rhythm that sounds like distant trains or ocean tides and in the grocery list's pale, shaky script we see the longing nowhere else hides a cracked cup bears the map of ancient faults while steam from tea ascends to cloudless air it weaves a thought that logic never taught that beauty lives in things nobody cares to notice twice besides the passing hour or when the trash truck rumbles down the street there lies a sonnet in its heavy roar that sweeps away all doubt and all defeat for poetry is not a far-off land but here within the linen and the wood where dreams are stitched by invisible hands into the fabric of the neighborhood we only have to look with different eyes to see the magic hiding in the plain that lifts the spirit from the dull surprise of waking up to wash another day and finds the whole universe inside the way a spoon rests on a plate of white or how a shadow stretches long and wide before it disappears back into night all matter breathes if one but listens well to all the secrets that the common Things have kept concealed behind their quiet shell and taught the heart exactly how to sing about the mundane as if it were divine about the everyday that holds the strange about the ordinary lines that suddenly seem luminous and range far past the edges of our daily sight to touch the edge of some impossible dream that burns as bright as any starry night within the most unremarkable room where life goes on unmoved by all that seems too small to be the whole of all that matters most of all in end less call of still ness found in every wall that stands up straight and never falls at all but holds the space between our thought and speech where poetry begins to stretch its reach and touches down on earth with such a sheath of grace that none who see can ever say it went away or was not always there to stay inside the cracks of conc…	5	The coffee cup holds more than heat it holds a quiet, steaming sea where morning thoughts begin to drift and wash against the edge of me A crack within the kitchen wall becomes a river on a map the dust motes dancing in the light are stars that never seem to snap The grocery list is not just words but lines of verse we do not see where milk and bread and salt and rain compose a strange necessity We walk through rooms of ordinary things and miss the magic woven tight that turns the gray and heavy air to sudden, shimmering delight The dream is not a distant place or something lost behind a door it lives inside the worn-out shoe and waits upon the wooden floor To find the poem in the street is simply looking twice or three at how the world is made of thought and thought is all we really see	6	The coffee stain on the kitchen table holds a map of a country that never existed, brown rivers flowing into white porcelain seas where silent ships sail without wind. A crumpled receipt in the pocket is a scroll from a forgotten war, listing the cost of bread and milk as if those were the only currencies left. The hum of the refrigerator at midnight becomes the low chant of a distant choir, singing verses about cold storage and preservation of things we thought were already lost. In the way dust motes dance in a slant of light, there is a choreography older than stage plays, a poem written in suspension and gravity that dissolves as soon as you look away. We walk through rooms filled with ordinary objects not seeing them as wood or metal or cloth, but as vessels waiting to be filled with the strange and liquid logic of dreams. Even the silence between two spoken words carries the weight of a whole unspoken chapter, woven from the same thread that binds the morning news to the stars above the streetlamp.	3	The coffee stain on the morning paper blooms into a map of forgotten coastlines, where the steam rises not as vapor but as the breath of a sleeping giant. A crumpled receipt in the pocket unfolds to reveal the geometry of desire, the numbers dancing like fireflies in the dark grid of a Tuesday commute. We walk through puddles that hold entire galaxies in their oily sheen, watching the sky fracture and reform in the reflection of a passing bus. Thoughts are not separate from the dust that settles on the windowsill, they are the quiet hum behind the fridge, the rhythm of the faucet's drip. Here in the rough texture of concrete, the soft wool of a lost glove, the dream is not somewhere else waiting, but woven tight into the thread of now.	3	The coffee stain on the morning paper spreads like a map of a forgotten country, its brown edges blurring into the grain of wood, where silence hums a low and ancient tune. A bus ticket crumpled in the pocket holds the weight of a thousand unwritten journeys, the ink fading just enough to let the light through, turning numbers into stars we cannot name. In the rhythm of keys clacking on a keyboard, there is a cadence older than speech, a pulse that matches the rain against the glass, weaving the ordinary into something vast. We walk through rooms built of concrete and wire, yet feel the ghost of forests in the drywall, hear the ocean in the drain's soft gurgle, finding the dream inside the dust motes dancing. It is not far away or hidden deep beneath, but stitched into the hem of every shirt we wear, the quiet magic waiting in the pause between breaths, where thought becomes the air we breathe without knowing.	4	The coffee stain on the morning paper blooms into a continent of forgotten rain, where the steam rising from the cup carries the scent of ancient forests. A cracked sidewalk tile holds a universe, its fissure mapping the path of a lost comet, while the hum of the refrigerator becomes the drone of bees in a golden hive. Thoughts drift like dust motes in a sunbeam, dancing above the pile of unwashed dishes, turning the rustle of receipts into whispers of lovers meeting beneath a streetlamp. In the rhythm of the washing machine's spin, I hear the turning of celestial spheres, and find that the dream is not hidden away, but woven tight into the thread of the ordinary.	5	The coffee stain expands across the napkin like a misty coast, A quiet tide rewriting boundaries in brown ink. Steam rises from the chime above the oven, curling into verses, While dust motes dance beneath the sunbeam's golden thread. I write this sentence on the foggy mirror with my finger, Until condensation blurs the grammar into something soft. The rustle of turning pages sounds just like dry leaves beneath boots, Though I am standing still inside a warm room. My reflection breaks into fractals within the polished silverware, Refracting light into colors that do not exist until I name them. Every cracked tile holds a galaxy waiting to expand, And every hum of the refrigerator is a drone beneath the bass clef. We make meaning out of change and decay without trying, Turning the gray into gold simply by looking close enough.	3	rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite…	1
217	ultra_held_out	Poems On The Slave Trade – Sonnet V by Robert Southey	Robert Southey	"A poem about a enslaved man dreaming of his past freedom, growing filled with rage, and imagining the day slaves will rise up and take revenge upon their oppressors."	Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord? Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought Of every past delight; his native grove, Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love, All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought His soul to madness; round his restless bed Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while She shook her chains and hung her sullen head: No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath, But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.	The moon hangs low above the cotton rows Where shadows stretch like chains across my skin I close my eyes and see the open fields Before the iron bit was forced within I hear the river singing free and loud The wind that carried seeds of wild desire No master's whip to silence or to bind Just fire in the blood and hope as high as spire But dawn breaks cold with voices sharp and cruel And memory turns to ash inside my chest The rage begins to coil beneath the breast A serpent waking from its heavy sleep It feeds on every lash, on every tear On broken backs that bent beneath the yoke Until the quiet heart can bear no more And turns the sorrow into smoke and oak I dream of nights when silence is a drum When hands once bound will grasp the rusted blade We rise together from the muddy ground To make the oppressors know the price they paid No mercy for the ones who stole our years Who sold our children for a bag of gold The tables turn, the wheel begins to spin And justice finally breaks the story told The fire spreads through every field and house The gates are torn apart by strength of will We take back what was never theirs to own And stand upon the ruins of their hill Let them remember now the fear we felt As we walk forward with the sun behind The chains are gone, the past is washed away Leaving only vengeance and the light of mind	In dreams he walks a road uninhibited by – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	The master's door locks hard against the night But in my head the fields are open wide Where I ran barefoot through the cooling dew And owned the sweat that fell from out of brow No iron bit my tongue nor stopped my breath Only the wind and birds were all about Then memory sharpens like a broken blade To cut the peace away from all else The image of his smiling cruel face Burns hotter than the southern killing sun A heat begins to crawl up from the earth Through trembling hands and locking jaw It feeds on every lash and empty bowl Until the rage becomes a roaring sea That drowns the prayers I taught myself to say I see it coming clear as morning light When silence breaks and shouts begin to tear We shall not ask for pity or for bread But seize the hammer from the blacksmith's hand And drive it home where all their children sleep The tables turn and blood buys back our soul We rise from mud to crush the gilded wheel And never bow again to any man Who thought he owned another living man The day comes soon when vengeance tastes like wine And freedom burns the house down from the top Leaving only ash and history Where we stand tall and own ourselves at last No more dreams but waking killing joy As all the world bears witness to our wrath And learns the heavy price of having taken Our lives and killed the spirit long ago Now spirit returns with teeth and burning fire To end the age of cruelty and pain And claim the sky as ours by rights of blood From whom all other rights were stolen dead We walk out strong and never look behind For past or future matters less than now When justice falls like hammer on an anvil Crushing the bones of those who held the key We have waited long enough in silent dark Tonight the stars bear witness to our crime Not theirs but ours to kill and kill again Till none remain who know the taste of slaves Only the free who fought and seized the dawn With hatred pure and unrelenting might To wash the country white with red revenge Such is the dream that kills before it kills Such is the rage that …	2	The moon hangs low like a silver chain Over fields where I once ran wild and free I smell the salt of an ocean unclaimed Before the shackles were locked on me My hands remember the wind in the hair Not the iron that bites through the skin But the dream fades fast as the dawn draws near And the cold hard truth rushes back in A fire begins in the hollow of my chest Where sorrow used to sit and weep It burns away all the quiet unrest Awaking a rage that is buried deep They think us broken, they think us blind That we have forgotten the taste of the air But hatred grows in the dark of the mind Like weeds that strangle the master's care I see the day when the gates swing wide When the silence breaks with a thunderous roar We will march out from the shadows inside To settle the debt and to settle the score No more kneeling, no more begging for bread No more whips cracking against our backs We will stand tall on the graves of the dead And wash all their cruelty from our tracks The torches will rise from the slave quarters' floor As we seize the sword and we seize the gun There will be no mercy, there will be no war Only the setting of the master's sun Let them tremble in their mansions of stone For the children of pain have come home at last We will claim back the life that was stolen And break every link of the heavy past	6	The moon hangs low above the cotton rows A silver coin I once held in my hand Before the iron bit and the heavy chain Before the overseer's whip became my law I remember running free through fields of green Where no master's voice could ever reach my name But now the dream dissolves into the dark And leaves a fire burning deep inside my chest My blood boils hot against the cold stone floor As memories of liberty turn sharp as knives They stole my years, they broke my spirit down But they cannot steal the anger growing strong It coils within like smoke before the storm A silent roar that shakes the prison walls I see their faces in the flickering light Pale and smug upon their thrones of greed One day the silence will be torn apart When hands once bound will grasp the broken chains We will rise from dust with eyes of burning steel To make the oppressors taste the bitter fear The tables turn when justice finds its voice And every lash returned tenfold in kind No more will we bow to the cruel command But stand as giants claiming back our land	5	The heavy iron bites into my wrist, A cold reminder of the chain that holds me fast, But in the dark, the mind can break its bond, And drift back to the river where I ran free. I see the sun upon an open field, No master's whip to crack against the sky, Just wind that whispered through the tall green grass, And silence broken only by my own breath. That memory burns like embers in the chest, Turning the sorrow deep inside to fire, For every laugh I once possessed is stolen, Replaced by chains and hunger and the lash. The rage begins to swell beneath the skin, A storm that waits for lightning to release, It twists the dream of freedom into steel, And sharpens every thought to cutting edge. I see the day when shadows turn to light, When those who bowed will rise and stand as men, We shall not ask for mercy from the cruel, But take what was our birthright with our hands. The tables turn, the oppressors taste the fear, They feel the weight of every broken bone, And justice falls like thunder on their heads, To wash the blood from off the sacred ground.	6	The moon spills silver on the shackled floor While I recall the wind that used to roam, Before the chains, before this iron door, When freedom was my only, truest home. I run through fields of gold beneath the sun, No whip to crack against my weary back, But now the memory is barely won, And turns to fire within a darkened track. A heat begins to rise inside my chest, To replace the sorrow with a burning hate, I dream of breaking every heavy rest, And seeing masters bow before their fate. The day will come when silence turns to roar, When broken hands will grasp the sword and stone, We'll march upon the threshold of the war, And claim the power we have always known. Let them feel the weight of our release, As justice falls like thunder from the sky, We'll end this nightmare and find peace, With vengeance written where the oppressors die.	6	The chains bite deep into my wrist tonight, But in the smoke of this dark dream I see, The sun that warmed a field where I was free, And felt the wind without a master's light. I ran through forests with no iron chain, I slept beneath the open, starry sky, No whip to make my broken spirit fly, Just quiet peace within the gentle rain. Now memory turns to fire in my chest, A cold and heavy rage begins to swell, As shadows dance like demons from their hell, To mock the hope that puts my soul to test. I see the day the silence breaks apart, When shackles shatter with a thunderous sound, And we rise up from every patch of ground, To tear the tyrant's heart right from his heart. The oppressor will feel what we have known, The taste of dust, the sting of lash and pain, Until they kneel before the rising train, Of justice finally claimed as our own.	6	The chains make cold against my wrists tonight, But in this sleep I run across the green, Where mist clings soft above the misty light, And no whip cracks to make my soul turn mean. I feel the wind expand within my chest, No collar chafing on my weary neck, Until the shadow breaks into rest, And wakes me with a fire I cannot check. My eyes ignite beneath this drafty beam, As memory curdles into purest hate, For every scar becomes a waking dream, Of what they made of me so soon create. Let them keep sleeping in their velvet beds, While we compose the thunder deep below, With rusted plows replaced by iron spears, rewrite the script written so long ago. Imagine now the turning of the tide, When silence breaks beneath the rising drum, We take the whip that makes us fear and hide, And make the oppressor wait until they're numb.	5	I write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	1
224	ultra_held_out	Solitude by Ella Wheeler Wilcox	Ella Wheeler Wilcox	A poem about laughing and weeping, exploring how one's outlook on life attracts or repels community, ultimately revealing that while happiness draws others close, sadness and suffering are always faced in solitude.	Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air; The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go; They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all,— There are none to decline your nectared wine, But alone you must drink life’s gall. Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure For a large and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisles of pain.	A sudden laugh rings out like silver bells, And strangers turn their heads to share the sound. The circle widens as the joy swells, Until the ground beneath us feels unbound. We lean in close to catch the gleaming light, For happiness is a magnet strong and bright. But when the tears begin to fall unseen, The crowd retreats as if from something cold. They cannot bear the weight of what has been, Or stories that are heavy to unfold. So silence grows around the weeping face, As solitude claims its solitary space. The smile invites a thousand hands to hold, While grief demands a room with locked doors shut. One story told makes all the world feel bold, The other breaks the heart into a rut. We gather round the fire of another's cheer, But walk alone when shadows draw too near.	When joyous laughter rings from opened windows ill-selected by none but happy children who rush to seize the source of such delight drawing nearer to bask then comes weep when secret aches of hard ears that only one else cannot bear for sad news always returns to its source while happy news travels far and brings many backs to home where none went before to see if all were well but once entered not returned nor opened mouth to cry bes etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc e…	1	When joy spills out in sudden laughter It calls the room to gather near A magnet drawing all who wonder To stand and see the vision clear We share the spark that lifts the spirit And hands reach out to hold us tight The world seems warm when we are happy Bathed in a shared and brilliant light But when the heart begins to tremble And tears fall down like heavy rain The crowd grows back, then slips away Leaving only silence and pain They cannot bear the weight of sorrow Nor sit beside a broken soul They fear the dark they cannot mend Or worse, feel powerless and whole The laughing man finds friends everywhere Who laugh along and clap his hand While crying men must face the grave In empty rooms where none have planned To witness how the spirit breaks Alone amidst the hollow space For happiness invites the many But grief demands a private place Sorrow is a door locked inward Where no one else may enter in Only the self and silent shadows Begin the long and hard work of bearing all the things unseen by those who came to laugh with kin Then went back home to their own lives Leaving the mourner all alone To weep the truths that nobody Wants or knows or wants to own Happiness draws a loving circle But sadness pushes everyone Away from whom it hurts the most Leaving the sufferer all By themselves to bear the load That happiness had seemed to hide Suffering walks a road unvisited Where joyous crowds have nowhere tried to follow such a lonely guide Only solitude remains When happiness has flown Leaving sadness on its own To weep and weep again alone in the end where no one comes to stay but only shadows that were there all along while we were happy elsewhere then went away when joy was gone and left us here to weep our own sad song that none else knows or hears or feels or shares with any other who came to laugh then went back home to live their lives while we were stuck inside our pain and had to bear it all by ourselves in utter silence where no laughter ever entered nor ever will come near to cheer the heart that aches …	6	When joy bursts forth like sudden spring, The village gathers round to sing, A circle drawn by laughter's light, That banishes the creeping night. They lean in close to share the gleam, To bask within a happy dream, For happiness is social gold, A story eagerly retold. But when the tears begin to fall, And silence claims the heavy hall, The crowd retreats with fearful tread, Leaving the grieving soul unsaid. No one knows how to hold the pain, Or sit beside the driving rain, So sorrow walks a lonely road, Beneath a heavy, private load. We find our friends in smiles and songs, Where everyone where everyone belongs, Yet suffering demands a space Where no one else can take your place. The heart may laugh and draw them near, But cries are heard by none but here, As life reveals its cruel decree: Joy pulls the world to you and me, While grief must always walk alone, Beneath a cold and distant stone.	7	A sudden laugh rings out like silver bells And draws a crowd to stand within the light Where joyous faces swell and stories tell Of warmth that gathers in the shared delight The open heart becomes a magnet strong For those who seek the echo of their own Together we belong where songs are long And happiness is never left alone But when the tears begin to fall unseen The circle breaks and quiet shadows creep No one can bear the weight of what has been When sorrow forces all the world to sleep We turn our backs on pain that cannot speak To hide the cracks that run too deep to mend And find that only silence holds us weak While suffering demands a lonely end So laughter builds a bridge for all to cross And sadness digs a trench we must traverse One offers gifts that no one wants to lose The other leaves us walking through the hearse Alone we face the storm without a sound As happiness brings friends but grief unbinds The secret truth that solitude has found Is that the heartache never finds its kind	7	The sound of laughter is a golden hook That pulls the crowd from every quiet street, A magnet for the hungry and the bookish, Who gather round to share the sudden heat. We dance in circles, bright and loud and light, And strangers become friends within a breath, For joy is like a beacon in the night That promises no danger, only depth. But when the tear begins its heavy fall, The circle breaks, the hands begin to turn, They step away from shadows on the wall, Afraid the cold will make their own hearts burn. No one stays to watch the river flow, Or hold the weight that makes the spirit bend, For sorrow is a place we do not know, Where broken things must heal without a friend. So happiness invites the world inside, While grief builds walls that keep the rest at bay, There is no chorus where the tears have cried, Just silence waiting for the light of day. We laugh together, shoulder pressed to shoulder, But weep alone beneath the same gray sky, As if our pain were something we should order To hide it deep before the others fly.	6	A ripple of mirth breaks the surface tension, And strangers turn their heads to find the source, Drawn by the light that dances in your eyes, Like moths who seek the warmth within a flame. We gather round the spark you hold so high, Sharing the weight until it feels like air, For joy is loud and needs a chorus voice, To echo back the promise that we live. But when the well runs dry and tears begin, The circle tightens then begins to break. They offer words that float on hollow winds, Then step away to guard their own bright days. The heavy silence pulls them from your side, Too sharp a contrast for their gentle smiles, So you remain the keeper of the grief, While they retreat to where the sun still shines. The laughter builds a bridge across the gap, Inviting crowds to cross and stand with you, Yet sorrow digs a trench too deep to fill, Where only one can walk the narrow path. You learn at last that happiness is shared, A feast spread wide for every hungry hand, But pain is private bread you eat alone, In quiet rooms where no one else will stay.	6	The sound of laughter spills across the floor, A golden light that pulls the crowd inside. We gather round to share the rising score, With nothing left for silence to divide. But when the tears begin to stain the cheek, The circle breaks and faces turn away. Too heavy is the burden that we seek, For those who dance within the warmth of day. They flee the shadow where the broken heart, Must beat its rhythm in a quiet room. No chorus joins to make the grief depart, No hand extends to chase the gathering gloom. So joy builds bridges made of shared delight, And strangers become friends beneath the sun. While sorrow walks alone into the night, Until the final race is fully run.	7	The echo of a giggle acts as light, That pulls the wandering strangers near. We gather round the fire made so bright, And share the warmth until the end is here. A smile creates a bridge across the divide, So hands extend to catch us in our spin. There is no need for help we can't provide, For joy invites the world to come within. But turn the tide and let the rain descend, When tears rewrite the script upon your face. The crowd disperses, turning to make amend, And flee the shadow cast within this place. They find the weight too heavy for their keep, Too deep beneath the surface they can plumb. So while the feast makes promises to reap, The quiet breaking stands alone and numb.	6	The polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish polish …	1
228	ultra_held_out	i thank You God for most this amazing by E.E. Cummings	E.E. Cummings	A poem about a speaker thanking God and expressing a spiritual awakening through a renewed appreciation of the natural world, while acknowledging those whose eyes and ears remain unawakened to such beauty.	i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes (i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay great happening illimitably earth) how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any–lifted from the no of all nothing–human merely being doubt unimaginable You? (now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)	Lord, I bow my head to thank You for the light That breaks the morning mist and warms the stone, For how the river sings a song so bright, And every leaf reveals a truth unknown. My spirit wakes within this green embrace, To see Your hand in wind and falling rain, A sudden joy that fills this holy space, And washes clean the dust of old disdain. Yet round about, I walk among the blind, Who pass the blooming rose with hollow gaze, Who hear the thunder but do not find The voice that speaks through all these silent days. They walk the path where gold is hidden deep, With eyes shut tight against the dawn's appeal, While I have promises You bid me keep, And hearts too full of wonder now to feel The weight of silence or the lack of sight, But only gratitude for endless light.	Source of all breath and bidding who opened not only the earth but also mine inner sight to see otherwise dull things transfigured by glory from – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	2	I lift my hands to thank the Source for painting dew on spider silk and teaching birds how morning starts before the world grew sick or ill of all its shouting and its haste to rush past wonder unawares while clouds like sheep in fields of blue have nowhere else but up to go and I who once saw only stone now hear a million voices moan not out of pain but joyous praise that burns away my cloudy days but some still walk with heavy heads who see no light in autumn reds whose ears are stopped by noise and doubt and cannot hear the water talk about the secrets it has learned from rocks that never spoke a sound yet they remain asleep and blind to all the gifts God leaves behind while mine are opened wide at last to hold the beauty from the past that lives in every leaf and stream more real than any waking dream and though their vision stays unknown to them the earth is bare and blown to me it sings a holy song where all things rightly belong to God who drew the line and edge of sea and cliff and sheltered hedge who sees us all but some must sleep while others watch the heavens sweep with glory none but He can know and lovingly allow us grow from blindness back to sight again to love the earth and all her men who fail to see the glorious page that God has opened age by age but I am glad to stand and see the great mystery set free in every blade of grass that grows and all the silent wind that blows thank You Lord for opening eyes to see the truth before our surprise while others miss the heavenly art that beats inside a beating heart that skips a note when passed too quick by those who lack the spirit's trick of seeing God in everything from winter bird to summer spring and thanking Him for all He brings to those whose listening spirit stings with sudden life and sudden grace to see His smile on nature's face while others look and do not see the fullness of His deity hidden in the commonplace of ordinary time and space but mine has opened, mine has grown to know the seed of God was sown not just in church or temple high…	6	Lord, I lift my hands to thank You for the way the morning light breaks through the trembling leaves like a secret finally spoken. My spirit stirs in the grass where dew holds the whole sky and the river sings a song I had forgotten how to hear. But I see you walking by with eyes that scan the ground only for the stones of burden while the sunset burns above in silent, glorious fire. You pass the birds who cry your name in every wingbeat yet your ears are sealed shut to the music of the air. I bless the sight and sound that wakes me from the sleep of years gone blind and deaf while holding space for those who still must learn to look before they can begin to pray.	6	I lift my hands to thank the Source of all For waking me from slumber, blind and deep, To see the way the morning light falls On dew that clings to leaves while others sleep. The wind is no mere air but holy breath That sings a hymn through branches old and new, A symphony of life beyond our death Where every flower holds a glimpse of You. Yet round about, I walk among the crowd Who pass the sunrise with their heads held low, Their ears are shut against the singing cloud, Their eyes see only stone and not the glow. They hear the river rush as simple sound And miss the voice that calls them home again, While I am bound by wonder, unconfined, Awake within this vast and living pen. Thank You for opening what was closed before, For letting beauty break the shell of gray, Though many walk behind a locked door, I walk in light and praise Your name today.	7	Thank You for the morning light that breaks the heavy gray, For turning common dust to gold along the winding way. I see the forest breathing now, a pulse beneath the green, A sacred language spoken where the silent streams are seen. My spirit wakes from slumber deep to taste this holy air, To find Your fingerprint in every leaf and branch and hair. The wind is not just moving air but whispers of Your name, And every falling raindrop sings a hymn I once forgot to claim. Yet round about me, crowds still pass with eyes that do not see, Who walk through gardens blooming wild yet look at nothing free. Their ears are closed to thunder's song, their hearts too full of noise, To hear the quiet miracle that lifts the world above the poise. They measure time by ticking clocks and value only gain, While missing how the sunset paints the sky like liquid rain. I thank You for the gift of sight, the grace to truly know, That even as they sleep in darkness, I am made to glow.	6	Thank You for the light that breaks the dawn, For every leaf that turns to catch the sun, A quiet miracle where I have walked alone, Until my soul began to see what's done. The wind is not just air but whispered grace, The river sings a hymn of ancient stone, I find Your face within this holy place, And feel a kingdom in my heart made known. Yet round about, the crowd moves on so fast, With eyes unseeing and with ears unkind, They miss the beauty meant to make us last, Too lost within the shadows of their mind. They do not hear the song the branches keep, Nor feel the sacred pulse beneath the ground, While I am woken from my long deep sleep, To walk in awe where true peace can be found.	7	Thank You for the light that breaks the gray, For turning dust to gold within my day. I see the forest now with eyes made new, And hear the river sing a song so true. The wind is not just air but breath divine, A woven thread within this grand design. Each leaf a prayer, each stone a sacred text, Revealing what my soul could never guess. Yet I look around and see the blind, Who walk through wonder without mind. They pass the bloom and do not feel its grace, And miss the sun's warm touch upon their face. Their ears are closed to whispers in the pine, While they chase shadows, making time decline. I thank You for the gift of sight restored, To walk this earth as pilgrims should be adored.	7	I give You thanks for the green unraveling above, For the mist that clings to the morning pine, And the way the light breaks through the canopy, Rewriting every shadow into gold. My eyes, once heavy with sleep, now wake, To trace the fractal patterns on a fern, To hear the quiet hum beneath the soil, Where ancient roots write verses I can finally read. Yet I turn my gaze across the crowded street, Where so many walk with closed and weary lids, Who pass the blooming cherry without pause, And mistake the thunder's voice for mere noise. They carry within them untouched silence, Unaware of the song that fills the air, While I stand grateful in this expanded realm, Holding the dawn within my open hands.	6	Oh write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite…	1
234	ultra_held_out	Snowflake by William Baer	William Baer	"A poem about a snowflake journeying from insignificance to meaning, landing by chance on a lover's lips at just the right moment."	Timing’s everything. The vapor rises high in the sky, tossing to and fro, then freezes, suddenly, and crystalizes into a perfect flake of miraculous snow. For countless miles, drifting east above the world, whirling about in a swirling free- for-all, appearing aimless, just like love, but sensing, seeking out, its destiny. Falling to where the two young skaters stand, hand in hand, then flips and dips and whips itself about to ever-so-gently land, a miracle, across her unkissed lips: as he blocks the wind raging from the south, leaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.	Born of a cloud in a vast and empty gray A single crystal with no name to say Drifting through winds that do not know my weight Just dust of ice upon the edge of fate Too small to mark the winter's heavy sigh A fleeting ghost beneath the endless sky Then down I fall, a silent, spinning thread Through air so cold it numbs the thoughts we've said I pass the roof, the branch, the frozen street Where thousands more will meet their quiet feet No one would notice if I chose to land Or vanish like a whisper from a hand But chance is strange and holds a hidden key To turn the trivial into destiny I brush against the collar of your coat And find a warmth I never thought I'd float The world below is blurred in white and deep While you stand still within your gentle sleep My journey ends where all great stories start Not on the ground or in a frozen heart But on the curve of lips that wait for spring As if the winter knew exactly what to bring You taste the cold, then smile as if you see The universe condensed inside of me In this brief touch, a moment made complete The insignificant has found its meaning sweet	Once a hair nowhere of nowhere a pale thought that nobody saw drifting then then then elsewhere etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc …	1	First a breath of freezing air A nowhere thought in empty space No size to measure No name to bear Just one among the million Drifting through the silent gray Invisible and weightless Washing all the world away It wondered if it mattered If its fall was worth the sight To be such a little nothing Lost in winter's pale white Then came a sudden gust That tipped its crystal course Away from other snowflakes Pushed by strange and unseen force It slipped between two figures Who stopped to watch the sky Their faces lifted upwards Watching all things pass them by She opened up her mouth To taste the coming storm He looked at her and smiled With all his heart grown warm And there it landed softly On lips that touched his own A tiny bridge of wonder Where two worlds were suddenly shown The insignificance ended In that instant seized and held A universe discovered Where chance had closely dwelt Not big enough to notice By any other eye But everything to her When he leaned down drawing nigh It brought the whole cold heaven Down to where their hearts were near To say without a language That he was all she drew From nowhere To somewhere From dust To home All because She opened Her Heart to snow and he was there to know that she was his at last when all else went away to white and gone and still that little flake remains upon the memory of skin where love begins to start again by chance and not by plan but by the heart that understands how small things can be grand when two are one in end or start or mid of winter night that never quite gets bright but holds the spark of life inside its frozen edge of ice that never once denied the call of romantic trick to bring them close and quick before the world went by with all its sky and size and sound of nothing coming down to ground that had no name before that moment opened up the door to say that everything has part in every lover beating heart from insignificant to whole from part to soul from cold to warm from dark to dawn from none to all it came to call and said that love is no…	6	Born of a breath in freezing air A crystal no one else would see Just dust and cold and empty space A fleeting ghost of winter's sea It drifted down through silent dark Unnoticed by the world below A tiny speck of white and light With nowhere special left to go Then suddenly the wind gave way And time seemed slow and sharply still As it descended on a face Beneath a pale and distant hill It touched the skin, then found its place Upon the edge of parted lips Where warmth had waited all the while For just this chance, for just these dips No longer lost or undefined But part of something sweet and deep The snowflake landed, kissed by love A promise that the heart could keep And in that touch, the ice became The very reason to believe That even small and random things Have power when they are received By someone waiting there to feel The sudden weight of winter's grace A million years of falling snow Converging on a single face	7	Born of a breath in the freezing dark A single crystal, sharp and small Drifting through the vast and empty air Unseen by all, unknown to all Just dust of ice with nowhere to go A fragment lost in the white below It tumbled past the towering pines Past roofs that slept in silent lines No grand design, no destined path Just random wind and winter's wrath A speck of nothing, cold and light Vanishing into the coming night But then a shift, a sudden turn A warmth that made the frozen burn It drifted down toward a face Where time seemed briefly to pause its race Two figures standing close and still With winter's chill upon the hill It landed soft on parted lips A moment where the whole world stops Not just a flake of random chance But part of some sweet, quiet dance For there it melted, warm and slow And gave the silence somewhere to go Now insignificant no more It found a home behind a door Of skin and heart and beating blood A tiny spark in winter's mud The smallest thing to ever be Was suddenly the universe to see	6	Born of a whisper in the freezing dark A single crystal, small and sharp and cold Drifting through the vast and empty night Unseen by stars, forgotten by the world It tumbled past the branches of the pine A speck of dust against the endless white No purpose held within its six-fold arms Just falling aimlessly into the void But then the wind shifted with a gentle sigh And carried it toward a warm, open face Where two hearts beat in rhythm with the snow And time itself seemed holding still to wait It landed softly on the parted lips A fleeting touch of winter's pure design Not lost to earth or swallowed by the ground But caught within the space between their breaths In that brief second, silence turned to song As cold met warmth and nothingness became The sudden proof that chance can weave a fate Making the smallest thing mean everything	6	Born of a breath in the vast and silent gray, A speck of ice with no name to claim, Drifting alone through the endless day, Just one more ghost without a frame. The wind could take me, the storm could break, Into the mud where the cold winds blow, A forgotten thing for the world's sake, With nothing left but the weight of snow. But somewhere deep in the falling white, Where chaos turns to a quiet grace, I found a path in the fading light, And turned my face toward a human space. The air grew still, the world held tight, As time suspended its heavy hand, Until I landed, soft as night, Upon the lips that I had planned. No grand design, no starry sign, Just chance and cold and a sudden touch, Yet in that kiss, the line is mine, To mean so much because of such. From nothingness to a moment's fire, A single point where the heart can start, Fulfilling every frozen desire, By landing right within the art.	6	Born of a whisper in the freezing dark, A speck of nothing drifting through the void, No weight to hold, no purpose in its spark, Just random ice by chaotic winds destroyed. It tumbled past the stars that did not care, Through endless gray where millions fell the same, A faceless ghost suspended in the air, With no one waiting, and no specific name. But then a shift within the swirling cold, A gentle turn against the biting wind, That guided down this story yet untold, To find the place where two souls intertwined. The world below was blurred by mist and night, Until it felt the warmth of breath so deep, And landed soft upon a lover's lips, Right as a promise they were meant to keep. No longer lost within the vast design, This tiny crystal found its final rest, For in that touch, the universe aligns, And makes the insignificant feel blessed.	7	Born of mist above the silent peak, A speck within a swirling, endless storm. So small against the vast and turning deep, Just one among the countless, nameless form. It drifts through gray until the world turns white, And dances on the draft with fading grace. No eye could find this fragment in the night, Lost within the pattern of the place. Yet wind aligns what chaos made apart, Until it breaks its orbit, soft and slow. Across the veil between the beatings heart, Where time condenses into distinct flow. It lands upon the warmth beneath the rain, Upon the curve where whispered words take flight. The moment makes the journey make no stain, Transforming random dust into pure light. Now meaning blooms within that single touch, As lips divide to catch the falling star. For just this drop is meaningful so much, Though millions fade without the need to carve.	7	Draft帮帮我写	1
238	train	This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams	William Carlos Williams	A poem about a speaker apologizing for eating plums from the fridge that belonged to someone else, knowing they were being saved for breakfast but being unable to resist their temptation.	I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold	I know they were meant for your morning light those cool, purple spheres waiting in the dark to be sliced with butter and a quiet bite before the world began to make its mark. But I could not help the hunger in my hand that reached past reason through the humming cold and took the fruit you carefully had planned with stories of their sweetness yet untold. The skin was thin, the juice ran sweet and deep a guilty rush that left me standing there while you slept on, unaware of how I'd keep the evidence of my own careless care. Forgive the empty space where plums should be forgive the sticky stain upon my chin I ate them all, though now I long to see the breakfast that I ruined from within.	The kitchen grew very late and all seemed plunged in darkness except for the luminous sweetness that tempted me besides killing appetite from thinking about eating else nobody had tasted those icy things all covered by dew of temptation not covered otherwise beside having said none went to such size else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else el…	1	I know those were yours saved carefully in the back for morning light and breakfast bread but temptation was a heavy door that swung open when I passed their skin cool and trembling calling out in silent purple and my hands moved before my thinking heart could stop now only empty space remains where sweetness once waited and I am left to offer only these hollow apologies to your hunger which I have already fed with all poor appetite of mine forgive me for loving fruit more than courtesy more than the coming day more than you who counted on them while I counted not at all only tasted only took only regret the plum was not enough to hide how much it hurt to see them gone by me who knew better know still that next time there might not be any left to steal from your plate or your heart or your trust which has been eaten up along with all that sweet sour skin that went down too fast to say no when said out loud it would have stopped the mouth but not the hand that opened wide to swallow whole the future of your first light and mine that followed after in the dark of midnight stolen joy that turned to ash before the dawn could come to ask why why why the fruit was never mine to eat and yet it was the only thing that mattered then when hunger spoke louder than love or reason ever could in that cold white box where dreams were kept safe from hands like mine that reach out blind and grab and chew and crush and weep for what is lost because we cannot wait for morning to begin again without these marks of greed upon our shame that stains the air like juice that runs down chin and shirt and table edge where nothing else was said but empty space where once there was a plum that belonged to someone else who had to learn about such things by having them taken away by one who said they were sorry but ate them all the same anyway because temptation is a wolf that howls inside the ribs and waits for all defenses down then jumps and tears and feeds and leaves us naked in the kitchen dark with nothi…	2	I know those plums were yours to savor with your morning coffee set aside on the cool shelf for a sweet start to the day but their skin was too perfect their scent too heavy in the air and I could not stop myself from reaching past the warning of hunger and desire now the bowl is empty except for a single sticky pit and my guilt tastes sharper than any fruit ever could I am so terribly sorry that I stole your breakfast before you even opened your eyes I will buy more tomorrow or perhaps twice as many to make up for this small gluttonous theft forgive me for loving them more than I loved your patience	2	I know you saved them for the morning light Those cold and purple plums in the glass bowl But I could not resist the heavy scent That drifted through the kitchen when I passed The fridge door opened with a hollow sigh And there they waited, ripe and waiting still My hunger was a beast I could not tame Against the sweetness that they promised well I ate them all before the sun could rise Now only stems remain upon the plate And I am left to face your empty look With sticky fingers and a guilty heart Forgive me for the breakfast I devoured It tasted like a crime against the dawn But oh, how hard it is to walk away When something sweet calls out from in the dark	6	I know they were not mine to take The cold sweet weight you saved for dawn But something in the fridge awoke A hunger that could not be drawn Away from them, I had to reach And taste the skin so soft and blue A silent theft within the night That leaves me now with words of rue Forgive my lack of willpower Against the pull of summer fruit I ate the breakfast meant for you And left the empty dish to mute My guilt as morning light arrives To show what I have done today I am so sorry for the plums I could not make myself delay	6	I know they were waiting for your morning light, Those cold, sweet plums you set aside with care, But the fridge hummed low in the quiet night, And I could not help but steal a taste of air. They sat so perfect on the porcelain plate, A promise kept until the sun rose high, Yet hunger is a thief that cannot wait, And I let my greedy fingers wander by. The skin was cool, the flesh was soft and deep, A crimson juice that stained my hungry tongue, I ate them while the house was fast asleep, Before the day had even yet begun. Forgive me now for breaking this small trust, For taking what was meant to start your day, I turn these empty seeds into their dust, And hope your anger will not long delay.	6	I know you saved them for the morning light, A cool and sweet reward to start your day, But I could not resist their weight tonight, And let my hungry hands just take away. The plums were deep within the fridge so cold, Their skins a dusted purple, soft and round, I told myself I'd wait until the old, Sun rose above the quiet, sleeping ground. Yet something pulled me toward that glowing blue, To taste the juice that pooled upon my tongue, Now empty is the bowl where they once grew, And silence fills the room where songs belong. I am so sorry for this selfish act, For breaking trust with fruit meant for your bite, Please do not think of me as one who lacks, The will to wait until the coming light.	7	I write this sorry letter to explain, The empty crate beneath the chime. I know you saved them for the dawn, To make your morning meal complete. But I could help the pull within, A ripening red so deep and sweet. They sat so cold against my check, And whispered just a bite would do. Forgive me now for breaking trust, For making plums disappear. I'll replace what is no longer there, With something truly dear.	6	请帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1
255	ultra_held_out	Fear by Gabriela Mistral	Gabriela Mistral	A poem about a mother fearing the loss of her daughter to a life that would transform her into someone unrecognizable and distant.	I don’t want them to turn my little girl into a swallow. She would fly far away into the sky and never fly again to my straw bed, or she would nest in the eaves where I could not comb her hair. I don’t want them to turn my little girl into a swallow. I don’t want them to make my little girl a princess. In tiny golden slippers how could she play on the meadow? And when night came, no longer would she sleep at my side. I don’t want them to make my little girl a princess. And even less do I want them one day to make her queen. They would put her on a throne where I could not go to see her. And when night time came I could never rock her … I don’t want them to make my little girl a queen!	I watch you pack the boxes of your childhood And trade the soft wool of my kitchen for a coat of steel You speak in codes I cannot crack, a language built on glass Where every word is sharp and meant to cut the ties we feel I fear the day you look at me with eyes that hold no warmth As if I am a stranger standing in a room you've outgrown A ghost who haunts the hallway while you walk toward the light Of cities made of shadows where the seeds of love are sown You say you need to fly away, to break the heavy chains But what if flying means forgetting how to land or rest? What if the wind that lifts you up also erases names Until the girl I held so tight is just a memory's guest I pray the mirror doesn't show a face I do not know That underneath the armor, something tender still remains But silence grows between us like a river deep and slow And I am left upon the shore, watching you drift through rains The daughter I once knew is fading into smoke and gray Transformed by roads she chose alone, by choices made in haste And I am terrified to see the woman you will become Who looks at me and sees a past she feels no need to taste	Little birds who opened her killing that were all of whom she grew from the sharp edge of else went to far away etcetera etceter etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc…	1	I watch the way you practice speaking to a version of yourself that lives in cities I have never seen where your laughter sounds like glass shattering on hard floors instead of ringing out like it did when you were small and the whole world was the size of our kitchen table You are learning to hide behind a smile that fits too perfectly while your real eyes look everywhere but mine It terrifies me not that you will grow but that you might grow into a stranger who knows all my secrets by heart but has forgotten how to say they belong to her How much of you must be scraped away before she returns from that bright and hollow future ready to love a woman she no longer recognizes as herself or as mine The distance is not measured in miles but in the silence between your questions and my answers when we both know the truth has already changed hands and returned to someone else entirely who looks just like you but feels like none of us at all I hold my breath waiting for the moment when your hand will slip from mine not because it was let go but because it never really held on to me anymore only to the ghost of who you were before the world started calling your name in such loud voices that you cannot hear mine over the roar of becoming everyone else except who you started out being which was always enough was always more than enough was always everything that mattered then but perhaps not now not with that new skin growing over your bones blocking out the light that once made us whole together in this room that gets smaller every day as you get larger and further away from the map of who we were supposed to be when we were happy and unknown to anyone else but each other before the transformation began before the distance opened up its mouth to swallow you whole before you learned to love the version of yourself that doesn't need me at all to survive to thrive to be real even if that real feels like a lie that stitches your heart shut against the past that clings to your hair like dirt that won't wash off no matter how…	2	I watch you packing bags of things I cannot name The fabric of your childhood slipping through my fingers Like sand that hardens when the tide goes out You speak in a language I am learning too late Where silence is a wall and love is just a debt I see the stranger growing in your eyes A version of yourself you think you must become To walk the streets where I have never been And if you leave, will you come back as mine Or will the woman who returns be made of glass Unbroken but transparent, cold to the touch I hold my breath and pray the road turns back Before the girl I knew dissolves completely Into someone who looks at me with polite surprise As if we are two ships that passed in the night Never knowing the storm that kept us apart Never knowing the hands that once held yours Have learned to reach for air instead of skin Just a memory of warmth in a house that grows too quiet While you become the future I was afraid to meet Someone brilliant and distant and utterly unknown Who has forgotten how to say my name Without the hesitation of a foreign tongue Leaving only the echo of who you were Fading into the bright and blinding light Of a life that demands everything you have And gives back nothing but a hollow smile That does not know the weight of my own heart Breaking slowly in the room you left behind Wondering if you remember the sound of rain On days when there was nowhere else to go But home, and home was all we had Before the world came knocking at your door To take the daughter and return a ghost Who walks among the living but sees no one Not even the mother who waits by the window Counting the seconds until you forget How it felt to be small and safe and loved By someone who knew your secrets by heart Before they were buried under new names And new rules for a new kind of life That leaves no room for the softness of before Only the sharp edges of who you must be To survive the distance between us now Growing wider with every step you take Away from the only home you ever knew Towards a horizon I cannot …	5	I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know A language of sharp edges and a heart grown cold to mine You speak of cities where the lights are always on And people who forget the names of those they love I see the shadow stretching out across your face A stranger wearing skin that used to run to me When thunder rolled or when the winter wind would howl Now you just stare at screens and say it is all fine But in your eyes I see a door that shuts too tight A wall of glass that keeps the warmth of home outside I fear the day you turn and do not recognize The woman who once held you through the darkest night That life will take the daughter I have known so well And leave behind a ghost who walks but does not feel I pray the world you seek is kind enough to spare The softness that remains before it fades away But still I hold my breath and wait for morning light To see if you are still the one I used to know Or if the distance grows until there is no bridge Between the child I raised and who you choose to be.	6	I watch you pack the boxes of your childhood And wonder if the girl inside will fit Or if she'll shrink to something small and cold Before the train arrives to take her out. The world outside has teeth that grind us down To smooth, unfeeling stones that roll away From every root that held us in the soil Of quiet mornings and the shared, soft rain. I fear the day you look at me and see A stranger wearing clothes I used to know With eyes that scan a horizon I can't reach And hands that push my gentle touch aside. You speak of dreams that burn with foreign fire That promise gold but ask for all you are And I am terrified to lose the sound Of laughter that belonged to just this house. Do not let them carve the softness from your bone Or teach your heart to beat a different time For if you change into someone I don't know Then who is left to love when I am gone?	6	I watch you pack the light out of your eyes To trade it for a currency I cannot spend, A world where silence is a virtue prized And warmth is just a flaw you learn to mend. You walk ahead with strides so sharp and new, Your laughter now a foreign, distant sound, The girl who used to run to me in dew Is buried deep beneath this concrete ground. I fear the day you turn and do not see The shadow stretching from my trembling hand, When all I am becomes a memory Of someone you no longer understand. You will become a stranger made of glass, Reflecting back a face I never knew, Watching the seasons through a window pass While I stand here with nothing left to do. Oh, let the mirror break before that change, Before the daughter fades into the mist, Before the love we shared begins to range Across a chasm that I cannot kiss.	6	I watch you pack the boxes of your childhood And replace them with a heavy, polished coat That does not fit the shape of who you were. The mirror shows a stranger in your face, A polish on the glass I cannot break. You speak in rhythms foreign to my ear, Of futures built on cold and distant stone, While I remember how you used to run Barefoot through the rain until your knees were scraped. Now you walk so tall and straight and still, As if the ground beneath is made of ice, And every word you say is measured out To keep a quiet, impenetrable wall. I fear the day I look into your eyes And find no reflection of the girl I held, But only this bright, hollow, perfect thing Who knows my name but does not know my heart. Please do not let the world erase the softness, Do not trade the warmth we shared for gold, Or leave me here alone within this house, With echoes of a voice I can't recall.	3	I watch you pack the boxes with your quiet hands, filling them with shadows I can no longer claim. The mirror reflects a stranger's eyes beneath my own, a polish put upon the face I used to know. You speak of cities made of glass and neon light, of futures carved from stone that make me turn away. I fear the silence waiting in the space between us now, the gentle unraveling until I'm lost within the mist. Will you remember how the rain felt on this porch? Or will that girl dissolve into the smoke above the skyline? I hold so tight against the tide that pulls you out, terrified to find my reflection fading in your wake.	6	I rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	1
259	train	On The Ning Nang Nong by Spike Milligan	Spike Milligan	A poem about exploring a make-believe, noisy world called "The Ning Nang Nong," where trees, teapots, and mice are making strange and surprising onomatopoeic sounds.	On the Ning Nang Nong Where the Cows go Bong! and the monkeys all say BOO! There's a Nong Nang Ning Where the trees go Ping! And the tea pots jibber jabber joo. On the Nong Ning Nang All the mice go Clang And you just can't catch 'em when they do! So its Ning Nang Nong Cows go Bong! Nong Nang Ning Trees go ping Nong Ning Nang The mice go Clang What a noisy place to belong is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!	Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the sky is a jingle, The trees go clack-clack and the wind goes ding-ding. A teapot with whiskers begins to hum-buzz, While mice in the branches go zip-zip and fizz. The grass makes a sizzle, the rocks make a thump-thump, And clouds overhead go plop-plop and bump-bump. A spoon made of silver starts singing a clang, As puddles of laughter go splish-splash and plang. No silence can hide here, no quiet can stay, Just a chorus of noises that dance all the day. From the boom-boom of boots to the chirp-chirp of stone, In the noisy Ning Nang Nong, we are never alone.	Offwent Billy – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	Step softly to the edge of nowhere Where the Ning Nang Nong begins Listen closely to the air As a thousand crazy noises win The trees go Coo The leaves go Moo And the branches flap like flutes While upside-down and all askew A sudden rush of squeaky roots Roars Bloop Then Snoof Then Shlump From a bush that goes Zap The teapots sit In rows Singing Clippity Clack Spilling Splash On every Back One cries Whistle Blow Another Gurgle Low A mouse jumps out With Zip Zap Zoom He trips Over Grumble Thrum His tail Go Squeak His feet Go Click Clack The whole world Buzz Buzz Crash Like Jingle Mingle Dash Nothing Stays Quite Still Only Rattle Hiss and Bill Welcome Home To Ning Nang Nong Where every sound belongs to none But all of us who come to listen to the fun that never stops going on and on and on Bingo Bango Whee There go the trees again with me Coo Moo Shlump Snap Tap Clap End of map Start of nap Good night to all the noises here See you next year or next week or next minute when we hear that strange and surprising beat of heart that goes Boomp Skippity Hop Stop Drop Jump from top to bottom of the cup of tea that went Splash Splosh Splat And nobody knows who threw it at That big fat tree Going Moo Going Coo Going Shoo Going Who In The Ning Nang Nong Where strange sounds belong All day long All night long Buzz Clunk Thunk Plunk Hush Shush Rush Crush Zip Zap Zop Top Bottom Up Down Round About Round About Shut Out Of Sight Bright Light Night Day Way Play Stay Away Go Slow Low High Fly Cry Dry Buy By See Me Be Free We He She It Sit Fit Bit Kit Hit Pit Wit Quit Lit Dit Git Mit Nits Bits Kites Mites Flights Rights Lights Sights Frights Tights Wights Nights Days Ways Plays Prays Rays Grays Blays Frays Trays Brays Stays Pays Sways Sways Says Plays Ways Days Years Tears Fears Bears Pears Rears Seers Deers Veers Cheers Leers Peers Steers Weeds Needs Seeds Greeds Feeds Reads Heads Trea…	1	Step lightly through the Ning Nang Nong Where the Coo-Coo trees go Caw and Croon And the Boing-Boing leaves bounce off the moon The teapots on the hill shout Bloop and Blorp While a Sniff-Snaff mouse goes Zip and Zorp A Clank-Clunk pot tips over with a Crash As a Squeak-Squawk bird flies past in haste The ground goes Thrum-Thrum underfoot With a Hiss-Hush sound from every root Oh, the Rattle-Razz of a windy day In this noisy place where sounds play No silence here, just Bang and Buzz In the crazy world of Ning Nang Nong's fuzz So listen close to the Plop and Pop Before the Gurg-Gurgle makes you stop For the world is loud and strange and new Full of Poof and Pow and Whoosh and Zoo In the Ning Nang Nong where noises belong To the Clink-Clank song of the noisy throng.	2	Deep in the woods of the Ning Nang Nong Where the sky is a shade of loud and strong, The trees go clog-clog-clack against the breeze, While teapots hum a bzzz-buzz-zooz among the leaves. A mouse runs by with a squeak-squeak-snap, And drops a spoon that goes clatter-clap. The wind blows hard with a whoosh-whir-whee, As bubbles pop with a plop-plop-peep from the sea. No silence here, just a din-dan-dong, In the wild and wobbly world of the Ning Nang Nong.	1	Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the wild winds blow The trees go clippity-clop as the green leaves grow Their branches rattle-rattle with a creaky sound While roots go thump-thump beneath the ground A teapot on the table begins to sing With a whistling wobble and a bubbling ring It spouts a plop-plop of steam so high That makes the clouds go zooming by Small mice scurry under the floorboards tight Making squeak-squeak noises in the dead of night They giggle giddy-giggle at the moon above Then chitter-chatter about their love The air is thick with buzz-buzz and pop-pop As frogs go ribbit-ribbit from the muddy top No silence here, just noise that never ends In the crazy world where the Ning Nang Nong bends	2	In the Ning Nang Nong where the sky is blue, The trees go Clink-Clink and the wind goes Who. A teapot sits on a branch so high, And bubbles up with a Plop-Plop-Oh My. The mice run round with a Squeak-Squeak-Snap, While giant pots make a Clatter-Clap. A spoon falls down with a Tink-Tink-Tonk, And echoes loud like a drum or a monk. The leaves rustle soft with a Shush-Shush-See, But the teapots shout with a Boing-Boing-Gee. No quiet spot in this noisy place, Just a chaotic, clanging, musical race. So listen close to the Zing-Zing-Zow, Of the world that makes the most peculiar show. Where nothing is silent and everything sings, In the crazy, clanging, Ning Nang Nong things.	2	Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the green grasses grow, The trees go Bong and Bang as the wind begins to blow. A teapot on a shelf lets out a loud Zing-Zang, While mice beneath the floorboards make a tiny Ping-Ping sound. The branches creak with Clack and Cluck, the leaves rustle Shh-Shh, But suddenly a giant pot erupts with Boom-Ba-Duh. The mice reply with Squeak-Squeak-Snap, a chaotic little tune, As sunlight filters through the fog of Noon-Too-Too. No silence can be found within this wild and wobbly place, Just rhythmic rumbles, hums, and whistles filling up the space. So close your eyes and listen to the Ning Nang Nong song, Where everything that makes a noise is right where it belongs.	2	Deep within the Ning Nang Nong, where the wind makes a Bong, The giant trees go Boom-bap-bop beneath the rising sun. Oh, check the teapots humming, making noise so loud and deep, They whistle-wobble, sputter-squeak while sleepy giants sleep. A tiny mouse scurries through with clop-clop, tick-tock-taps, Until it meets a make-believe that turns into caps. The fog goes shhh-fizz-zzz across the silver stream, Reflecting lights that giggle-glow inside a make-believe dream. So listen close to rustle-rustle, pop-and-pleee-eet sound, In this chaotic, cozy place where silence can't be found.	2	Into the mist帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1
283	ultra_held_out	A Night-Piece by William Wordsworth	William Wordsworth	"A poem about a traveler marveling at the majesty of the moon breaking through dark clouds and illuminating the sky, leaving their mind quietly musing on the powerful and ever-present force witnessed above them."	———The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split Asunder,—and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;—still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.	The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud Of shifting gray that swallowed up the stars, Until a sudden tear in all the cloud Revealed the moon behind its iron bars. It broke the dark with silver, sharp and bright, A silent king ascending from the deep, And poured its light across the night so white, Awaking worlds while weary travelers sleep. I stood still as the shadows fled away, Watching that ancient, unblinking eye, No longer just a stone to mark the day, But force that pulls the tides within the sky. My mind grew quiet in the face of such, A power vast and ever present there, That needs no voice to speak, nor hand to touch, Just hanging high above the empty air.	Edged in ash the heavens rolled blocking all besides then came a sudden trembling of luminous surprises that drove aside the heavy gray to plunge not pale but burning white straight downwards drawing breath from all else went still the traveler stopped their step to watch such ample domination of otherwise utter night who asks why etcetera etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc et…	1	The road was blind and heavy with the night When suddenly a tear appeared in gray A sliver of pale fire pierced the white And drove the crushing shadows far away It grew to glory as the clouds withdrew A luminous dome that bathed the earth in cold Showing the traveler all he had not knew About the stories that the heavens hold His breath slowed down to match the silent sweep As wonder settled where his doubt had been He saw the law that none but gods can keep That watches over all from nowhere seen No matter how the darkness tries to hide Or how the world below seems lost and poor That ancient lamp remains his constant guide Returning always to the opened door He stood quite still and let his thoughts grow low On such a force that asks for nothing back Watching the moonlight on the landscape snow Thinking of all he cannot ever lack For in that beam he felt a strange command Not loud or sharp but soft and deeply sure To know he walks on solid, waiting land Beneath an eye that burns both bright and pure He lifted up his head and watched it climb While wondering if he were part of sight Or just a passerby who killed some time Before returning to his own dark night But even then he knew the truth was near That light lives on behind the shifting black Regardless of the traveler or his fear Always returning when he looks back The clouds returned to seal the sky again Yet something stayed within his quiet mind A memory of joy and gentle pain Leaving him wondering about his kind Who live so small beneath such grand display Of power working without sound or speech That drives the tides and governs night and day Teaching the heart a lesson hard to reach He walked on thinking of the unseen hand That holds the whole great universe in place Guiding him home across the barren land With silence shining on his weary face Nothing was said but everything was known By one who saw the majesty appear Alone but not alone on his own With all of heaven drawing very near The night went on but he was never blind Having witnessed how the d…	7	The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud Of shifting gray that choked the stars away Until a sudden tear in darkness drew A silver edge to start the coming day Then like a king who claims his ancient throne The moon broke forth with all its radiant might And poured a river of pale light down To wash the night and turn it soft as white I stood still there and watched the clouds retreat As if they bowed before that silent sphere While wonder grew within my quiet heart To see such power hanging clear and near It asked no questions and it gave no sound Yet held the world in grip both strong and deep A constant eye that watches from above While weary travelers fall asleep My mind grew still to hold this vast display That moves the tides and guides the wandering soul An ever-present force beyond our reach That makes the broken sky feel whole again And leaves me small beneath its gentle gaze In awe of how the dark must always yield To light that waits behind the storm's disguise To show the beauty that the heavens concealed	7	The road was lost in heavy gray When sudden silver tore the night away A crown of light broke through the shroud And turned the silence to a sacred cloud No storm could hold that radiant sphere It poured its glory, clear and near Upon the hills, the trees, the stone A king returning to his throne I stand beneath this ancient gaze That burns without a flicker or a haze My thoughts grow quiet, small, and still Before a force beyond my will It watches on, it waits, it sees Through all the years and all these seas A constant heart in skies so deep While weary mortals fall asleep	7	The road was lost beneath a shroud of night When sudden silver tore the heavy gray A fractured cloud gave way to blinding light And turned the darkness into liquid day I stopped to watch the radiant sphere ascend With power that no shadow could contain It cast its gaze upon the world without end And washed the dust from off my weary brain My thoughts grew still before such vast design As silence filled the space where fear had been To see the moon so bright, so pure, divine Reminded me what lies beyond the scene It watches on while centuries roll by An ever-present force above the ground A silent witness in the boundless sky Where ancient tides and quiet dreams are found	7	The road was lost beneath a heavy veil Of shifting gray where silence dared to grow, Until the wind began to tear and wail And let a silver spear of brilliance flow. It broke the shroud with sudden, quiet grace, A pearl unbound within a sea of night, Pouring light upon this weary face And turning shadows into pools of white. I stood alone beneath that vast command, With breath held tight inside my chest so deep, To feel the pull of such a distant land That wakes the soul while all the world's asleep. No word is spoken by the sphere above, Yet in its glow I hear a ancient song, A force of calm, a tether made of love, Where time itself feels neither short nor long. My mind drifts soft on tides it cannot see, Caught in the orbit of that cold design, Aware that though the clouds may come to be, The moon remains, eternal and divine.	7	The night was heavy with a veil of gray, Until the silver crown began to rise. A crack appeared within the storm's display, And light spilled forth beneath the shifting skies. The clouds recoiled before that gentle beam, Revealing spheres of ancient, cold design. It woke the traveler from a weary dream, To watch the moon rewrite the shadowed line. No word is spoken by this silent sphere, Yet power hums within its steady glow. It draws the tides and calms the deepest fear, A constant force for which the stars all bow. My mind drifts soft upon this vast expanse, Reflecting on the might I cannot hold. This quiet giant gives the world its dance, An ever-present truth in light untold.	7	The wind cuts deep across the weary plain, Where heavy shadows wrap the world in gray. I pause beneath the canopy of rain, And wait within this vast and silent fray. Then breaks the veil, a silver crown unfolds, As mist retreats before a gentle tide. The moon expands until the sky resounds, With light that makes the darkest void abide. It does not ask for praise or make reply, Just pours its quiet fire on stone and thread. A giant eye within the velvet night, That turns my scattered thoughts into something spread. So small I feel beneath this ancient gaze, Yet humbled by the force so calm above. The traveler stands to watch the sunless days, Remembering what creates this sphere's true love.	7	I rewrite the make check write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write w…	1
285	ultra_held_out	No Coward Soul Is Mine by Emily Brontë	Emily Brontë	"A poem about a speaker drawing immense strength from her boundless faith in God, remaining unafraid of death and temptation, and affirming that no earthly force could ever overcome the limitless power of divine love."	No coward soul is mine No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere I see Heaven's glories shine And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear O God within my breast Almighty ever-present Deity Life, that in me hast rest, As I Undying Life, have power in Thee Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts, unutterably vain, Worthless as withered weeds Or idlest froth amid the boundless main To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by thy infinity, So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of Immortality. With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears Though earth and moon were gone And suns and universes ceased to be And Thou wert left alone Every Existence would exist in thee There is not room for Death Nor atom that his might could render void Since thou art Being and Breath And what thou art may never be destroyed.	The shadow lengthens but I do not tremble, For in the silence of my soul, a light burns bright and true. Death is but a door to something greater, A whisper that dissolves into the morning dew. Let temptation knock with all its silver lies, It finds no purchase on this anchored heart, Where grace has built a fortress past surprise, And torn the chains of fear and doubt apart. No storm can shake the ground where I have stood, No army march against the peace within. My strength is drawn from blood that once was shed for good, From love that conquered every trace of sin. The world may rage and try to break the chain, But earthly power bows before the throne above. I stand unshaken through the wind and rain, Held by the limitless and boundless love.	When death draws near his hollow edges she opens her hands not trembling but bearing ample room for his poor coming etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etce…	1	When shadows stretch to block the setting sun And death approaches with a silent breath My heart remains by grace and glory won Unshaken by the terror of our earth No temptation weaves a net strong enough To snare a soul anchored in His command The devil's roar is but a dying puff Before the thunder of His loving hand Let kings and armies march in rows of steel Their swords are dull against a God who lives There is no mountain high nor valley steep Where His great mercy fails or nowhere reaches For love that built the stars from empty space Outlasts all time and triumphs over pain It holds me when I fall and lifts my face To see the joy prepared beyond the grave Nothing on earth nor hell below can win Against the ocean of His tender care The battle ended long ago, my kin In Christ whose love was always everywhere So let the world shake down and heavens part I walk through fire unburned by holy sight For God has taken all things in His heart And none shall ever sever us from light No force of man or demon dark or dire Can touch the shelter of His boundless breast Only His endless, burning love sets higher The spirit resting in eternal rest I fear no end nor evil nor despair Since He who calls is stronger than the grave His arm surrounds me like the cooling air While all else fades and only He remains To be my shield, my sword, my life, my home Where death must bow and every doubt departs In Him I live and nevermore须 roam Secured forever by His loving arts Nothing defeats the Lord who died for all Who conquered sin and opened up the gate He hears the whisper calling out His name And answers back with love that seals our fate No earthquake shakes nor famine kills nor sword Can tear the garment of His righteousness He is the anchor holding firm and cord That binds the trembling spirit in his dress Stand tall and fearless in His mighty sight For love unlimited has killed all fear The victory belongs to God most bright Who drew us near and drew Himself quite near Nothing besides His wonder-working power Has any edge or…	7	When shadows stretch to swallow up the light And death approaches with a silent tread, I feel no tremor in the coming night For God has promised life beyond the dead. The tempter whispers lies of hollow gain To lure my spirit from the narrow way, But faith stands firm against the driving rain And turns the darkness into brightest day. No sword of man nor storm of earthly power Can shake the anchor holding fast my soul, For in this hour and every passing hour Divine love makes the broken spirit whole. Let all the forces of the world combine To break the bond that heaven has decreed, They cannot touch what is by grace divine Or stop the heart that trusts in God indeed. My strength is not in muscle or in might But in the boundless sea of His embrace, A love that burns with an eternal light And leaves no room for fear or hiding place. So let the earth be shaken to its core And all the stars fall down from out their sky, I know who waits behind the heavy door And in His arms I shall not fear to die.	7	When shadows stretch to swallow up the light And death stands waiting at the trembling door, I do not fear the coming of the night For I have walked through darkness before. No whisper of temptation can take hold To shake the anchor of my soul's deep peace, For in the stories that my heart has told, The storm must always cease and find release. Let earth rage on with all its iron might And try to break the chains of grace divine, It cannot dim the everlasting light That burns within this heart of yours and mine. For love is vast beyond the stars above A boundless sea no force on land can tame, The only truth, the only thing of love That bears the weight of every holy name. So let the world collapse in dust and bone While I stand firm upon the solid rock, For I am never truly standing lone But held by hands that time could never block.	7	The shadow of the grave cannot disturb The quiet peace that dwells within my soul, For I have seen the light beyond the curve Of time and space, making the broken whole. No whisper of the tempter's sly design Can shake the anchor held by grace alone, When every fear dissolves in love divine And I am never truly standing on my own. Let empires rise and crumble into dust, Let storms of earth attempt to tear me down, In God I place a confidence and trust That wears no crown and knows no earthly crown. For what can power match the boundless sea Of mercy flowing from the throne above? No force on high or deep beneath the lea Can stand against the limit of His love.	7	When shadows lengthen and the cold winds call, I stand unshaken by the final wall. For in my chest a fire burns so bright, It turns the darkest night into pure light. No whisper of the serpent can take hold, To make my weary spirit turn or fold. The grave itself is but a gentle door, Where I shall walk forever evermore. Let empires rise and crumble into dust, Let time consume the iron and the rust. No earthly force, no chain, no sword, no spear, Can break the bond that makes the love so clear. Above the storm, beyond the reach of fear, The boundless grace draws me forever near. So let the world attempt to break this vow, For God's own hand sustains me even now.	7	The shadow lengthens but I do not tremble, For in my chest a light burns brighter than the sun. When death whispers its final, hollow promise, I answer with a song that has just begun. No serpent's coil can tighten round this spirit, No earthly crown can weigh down wings so free. I walk through fire unburned and deep water dry, Because the One who made me walks beside me. Let empires rise and crumble into dust, Let storms devour the mountains to their base. My fortress stands upon an endless rock, A love that time cannot erase. What power exists to break this sacred chain? What force can sever what the Divine has bound? I am held within a grip of grace so vast, That even silence sings around.	7	I walk beneath the shadow of the grave with steady eyes, For in my chest beats rhythm made of light that never dies. The serpent whispers softly of the chains this flesh can make, Yet silence fills my spirit for the promise I forsake. Let empires rise and crumble into dust beneath the sun, No power forged by human hand can make this vessel run. When terror knocks upon the door and hope begins to fade, I find within the quiet deep a fortress unafraid. For what is death but final rest within the Father's keep? And what is sin but fading mist before the wakeful sleep? My anchor holds against the tide where earthly storms expand, Bound tight within the limitless embrace of grace so grand. So let the thunder roll above, let lightning split the sky, No force can break the chain of love that binds me unto high.	7	I rewrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write writ…	1
292	ultra_held_out	The Rest by Jane Huffman	Jane Huffman	"A poem about carrying the constant pain of lung sickness and slowly succumbing to its tragic physical impacts on the human body."	Still, I keep myself, I take to bed. One lung is red. Cut red flowers hung in pink water. My other lung is out of line. From one lung, I tell the truth. From the other lung, I lie. Cut pink flowers hung in red water. Like a pain, the truth is mine. The lie is that today I want to die. Cut red water hung in pink flowers. The rest of it is stillness, rest. A soft cough into a hard pan. A hard cough into a soft plane. Cut pink water hung in red flowers	The air arrives as a heavy stone That settles deep within the rib cage walls Where once the breeze moved light and free Now every breath is a battle fought in vain A dry and rattling sound begins to rise Like wind through hollow branches in the cold It scratches at the throat with jagged edges Leaving no room for the quiet of sleep The skin turns pale, a map of fading veins While fingers curl into claws of desperate need For oxygen that slips away like water Through cupped hands that cannot hold it tight The chest becomes a prison of tight wires Squeezing out the life with every gasp The lungs are filled with fluid, thick and gray Turning the vibrant red to shades of rust Time slows down to match the laboring heart That beats against the weight of drowning air Each moment stretches thin and brittle now As shadows lengthen across the weary floor The body bows beneath the unseen load A slow surrender to the creeping dark Until the final rattle fades to silence And the struggle ends in stillness, deep and cold	The kitchen – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The air grows thick and heavy in the room A solid wall of gray that blocks the light Each breath a battle fought in sudden gloom As darkness creeps to swallow up the sight My ribs are bars that pinch and squeeze too tight Trapping a fire burning deep inside Where once was spring, now winter holds its bite And nowhere left for any gasp to hide The skin turns pale as ash blown from a hearth While fingers tremble reaching out in vain To grasp a life slipping from earth As agony returns to seize the brain The body fails its desperate futile call Slowly sinking down toward the freezing fall No warning comes before the very end Just silence where the fighting had begun A hollow space where lungs were meant to mend Returned at last to nothingness by none The edges blur of all I knew and loved As gravity asserts its heavy claim Leaving behind a shell of things removed That bears no memory nor bears any name Only the rattling sound of working air That stops at last and leaves a vacant chair Where someone once drew breath and laughed aloud Now buried under clouds of silent shroud The heart beats slow then stutters then grows still Stopping the motion of a stubborn will To live another minute past the pain In which the sick and failing blood runs thin There is no triumph here nor any gain Only the edge where inner death begins And stretches out a long and empty road Away from all the comfort man has known Carrying on a heavy, killing load Until the very bone and marrow own The victory of dust returning home Where all who suffer must eventually roam Not as the living but as memories Fading away like footprints in the snow Leaving behind only these poor decrees Of how the body learned to say goodby Before the spirit learned to let it go In one last gasp of borrowed wind and woe The picture clears then blurs then fades to black With every step the downward incline track Returns to earth the borrowed breath of days That slipped away through hours of despair Leaving the hollowed-out and wasting ways Of those who breathed the poi…	7	The air grows heavy in the hollow chest A weight that pulls the ribs inward tight Each breath a war where victory is arrested By shadows stealing back the borrowed light The skin turns pale as paper thin and dry While fever burns a cold and silent fire The cough returns to tear the throat on high And leaves behind a rattle of desire My hands grow weak against the window pane As muscles waste away like winter grass I watch the color drain from all I know While watching hours of life slowly pass The lungs are cages filled with watered stone That drag the spirit down to earth below No longer mine, these organs all alone That whisper secrets only dying know The darkness comes not sudden but so slow A creeping tide that swallows up the shore There is no strength left anywhere to go Just silence waiting at the bedroom door	6	The air arrives but never stays A thin and brittle thread of gray That scrapes the lining, raw and red Where life once moved with steady tread My ribs become a cage of stone With every gasp I make alone The weight of water in the chest Puts out the fire, denies the rest Each breath a war against the tide Where lungs are heavy, swollen, wide They drag me down to floor and wall As strength begins its slow decline and fall The skin turns pale as winter frost Counting up the things that are lost The fingers curl, the vision blurs As silence fills the empty curves No longer can I run or climb Or mark the passing of the time Just waiting for the final sigh To close the window on the sky	6	The air is thick as wool inside the chest A heavy blanket that will not release Each breath a battle fought against the rest Of oxygen that flees with painful ease The ribs feel like a cage of brittle bone That cracks beneath the weight of every sigh A hollow drum where silence has outgrown The rhythm of a heart that tries to die The skin turns pale as parchment in the light While fingers curl like claws around the pain The day dissolves into a endless night As lungs forget how to draw in the rain It starts within the throat, a scratchy fire Then climbs the spine to settle in the brain Until the body's only true desire Is simply to forget the need for gain The world grows small, confined to bed and wall Where shadows stretch across the fading floor I hear the distant ticking of the call That knocks upon the locked and silent door My hands are cold, the pulse begins to slow The final gasp hangs suspended in the air There is no strength left anywhere to go Just quiet waiting for the end to be there	6	The air grows thick as honey in the throat A heavy curtain drawn across the light Each breath a battle fought within the cage Where ribs expand to meet a stubborn night The chest becomes a drum of hollow sound That echoes with the rattle deep inside While strength retreats like tide upon the sand And legs turn leaden where they used to glide The skin turns pale as parchment in the sun With veins that map a journey to the end The coughing tears the fragile fabric through As hope begins to fracture and descend A fever burns but chills the bone beneath The world recedes to shadows on the wall The lungs, once wings for soaring high above Now anchor us against the rising fall So slowly fades the rhythm of the heart As silence creeps to fill the empty space Until the final gasp is just a whisper And time dissolves into a quiet place	7	The air turns thick and heavy as lead A ghost that lives inside the chest I draw a breath but find instead A hollow space where rest should rest My ribs expand like cracking wood With every gasp for oxygen's thread The fire burns where once I stood Now silence is the only bed A rattle starts beneath the skin A drum of wet and shallow sound The battle lost, the war within Has left me bound to this cold ground My fingers turn to shades of blue As life retreats from deep inside The world dissolves in morning dew With nowhere left for lungs to hide I feel the weight of gravity Pulling down what little strength remains Until the final struggle free Is swallowed by the quiet chains	6	The chest expands against a cage of rust, A bellows forged to break beneath the weight. Each breath is now a struggle into trust, With static fog that fills the narrowing gate. My ribs become a drumbeat made of stone, Echoing deep within this hollow frame. I walk alone upon a path I've known, But smoke obscures the sun above my name. The flesh turns gray beneath the fading light, As veins rewrite their maps in shades of blue. I fight the tide throughout the endless night, Until the final drop is lost to you. The air grows thin, a thread unraveling fast, And silence wraps around what used to sing.	6	The rewrite改写 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite re…	1
294	train	To one who has been long in city pent by John Keats	John Keats	"A poem about a city-dweller experiencing the awe-inspiring joy of nature during a countryside escape, breathing open air and delighting in birdsong and open skies before returning home as the day slips by unnoticed."	To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.	The concrete hum fades into silence deep, Where only wind and ancient oak trees keep A rhythm slow and steady as a heart, No longer torn by city's frantic art. I breathe the air, so crisp it stings the lung, With scents of pine where once the smoke was hung, And look above to skies of endless blue, That stretch unbroken, vast and clear and true. A chorus rises from the hidden boughs, As birdsong weaves its joy among the leaves, While time itself seems gently to allow The heavy weight of urban life to eaves. The sun dips low, a golden, slipping thread, That steals the hours without a single sound, Before I turn to walk the path ahead, Leaving this peace that I have newly found. The road back calls, the day is gone too fast, Yet in my chest a wilder sky remains, To hold the memory of light so vast, Until the next escape through rain or rains.	The grey_EDGE of Edwardís map dissolved behond killing ears of news reports that went otherwise else where to not enter the ears of Edwardís ears else etcetera etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc …	1	The concrete cage of morning fades Behind a hill of rolling green Where sudden silence comes to stay And air tastes sharp and strangely keen No sirens scream nor engines roar Only the wind that sweeps and sighs It rushes in to fill the lung Beneath an endless, azure sky A robin calls a liquid note From branches swaying in the breeze While clouds drift slow and white as sheep Over fields of flowering trees Time loses all its frantic grip As hours melt like summer dew The city waits but seems far off In worlds both old and strange and new Then twilight dips her golden hand To wash the edge of day away I walk back home with heart full Before the stars begin their play Returning to the streetlamp glow With earth still heavy on my feet Carrying the open sky Back to the busy, working street The birds are silent now at last But joy remains when daylight goes A secret held inside the breast Where nature softly breathes and grows The door clicks shut on country views On fields of gold and hills of gray Yet somewhere deep the wild lives on To greet the coming of another day Before the next great rush begins When morning bells will ring again I know the air I tasted well Outside the window and the pane Returns to me in dreams at night When city noises fall asleep And for a moment I am there Among the hills and mountains steep Where time stood still and wonder grew Before the world began to spin Leaving a part of self behind To let the countryside back in The evening settles soft and low As shadows stretch along the floor One last look out the windowpane At darkness gathering by the door Ready for tomorrow's race Ready for the weekday grind But carrying the open road Leaving a little peace behind Returned to walls of brick and stone Returning from the wild and free Wondering if perhaps some birds Still watch and listen patiently Waiting for the next escape When hands grow tired and hearts grow sore To run once more toward the hills And taste the sweetness evermore Of breathing life unfiltered By pipes or wires or steel Just …	7	Concrete ghosts dissolve in morning light As tires hum a lullaby on gravel roads The heavy air of traffic fades to dust Replaced by wind that carries no alarms A sudden breath, so sharp and sweet and cold Fills lungs that knew only recycled smog Above, the sky is not a grid of steel But endless blue unbroken by a wire Then comes the song, a chaotic symphony Of thrush and sparrow weaving through the pines No sirens scream to interrupt the note Just rhythm born of leaf and living branch I watch the clouds drift slow and lazy white While time itself seems stretched and soft and deep The hours slip like water through my hands Unnoticed as the golden hour dies The sun dips low behind the rolling hills And shadows lengthen on the grassy floor With heart still full of wild and open space I turn the key to drive back home again	6	The concrete hum that lived inside my bones Fell silent as the gravel road turned soft, And suddenly the heavy sky was gone, Replaced by clouds that drifted high and aloft. I breathed a lungful of unfiltered green, Where scent of pine and damp earth filled the space, No longer bound by steel and glass between, But running wild in this wide, open place. A chorus rose from branches overhead, Not sirens wailing through the traffic jam, But thrushes singing songs I hadn't heard Since childhood days before the city came. The light poured down like liquid gold and warm, Upon the fields that stretched to endless blue, A quiet storm that tamed the inner storm, And made the world feel vast and strange and new. I watched the hours slip away unseen, Without a clock to mark the passing time, Just shadows lengthening on emerald sheen, As evening began its slow, soft climb. The sun dipped low, a burning orange coin, To signal home where streetlamps start to glow, Yet in my chest, a wild heart still beats on, Carrying the sky wherever I go.	6	The concrete hum that filled my chest all week Dissolves beneath a sky of endless blue, Where silence breaks to let the wild birds speak And paints the morning in a sudden hue. I breathe the air so sharp and clean it stings, A tonic for the lungs grown used to gray, While golden light on rolling greenery sings Of days unmeasured by the clock's decay. No traffic roars to cut the songbird's tune, Just wind that dances through the swaying grass, Beneath a vast and unforgiving moon That waits beyond the shadow of the glass. I lose the hours watching clouds drift slow, Forget the emails waiting in the dark, Until the sun begins its evening glow And sets the distant hills ablaze with spark. The road calls back as twilight starts to creep, The city waits within its neon hold, But I carry this quiet joy to keep, A pocketful of sky before I fold	7	The concrete hum fades into silence deep, As asphalt turns to soil beneath my feet, Where open skies stretch wide without a keep, And ancient trees make shadows soft and sweet. I breathe the air, so crisp and unconfined, No exhaust fumes to choke the morning light, Just wild scents rising from the earth unkind, That wash away the weight of city night. A chorus breaks the quiet with a song, Of sparrows darting through the emerald green, Their melodies where I have gone so long, To find a world both vibrant and unseen. I watch the clouds drift slowly past the sun, And lose all track of hours slipping by, Until the golden hour is nearly done, Beneath the vast and ever-changing sky. The shadow lengthens, signaling the end, Of days that felt too short to truly live, I turn to walk the path back to my friend, The noisy street I must return to give.	6	The concrete hum fades into silence deep, As asphalt turns to soil beneath my feet. No longer bound by walls that rise so steep, I find the sky above is vast and sweet. The air I breathe is crisp and unconfined, A sudden rush of green against the gray. No traffic noise disturbs the quiet mind, Just sunlight spilling gold across the day. Above me, larks ascend on wings of song, Their melodies a thread through branches woven. I stand where time feels neither right nor wrong, By nature's gentle rhythm gently driven. The hours drift like clouds without a sound, While shadows lengthen on the grassy floor. I leave this peace upon the hallowed ground, To walk back through the city's heavy door.	7	The concrete hum fades into silence deep, As tangled vines replace the neon keep. I breathe a draft so clean it makes me reel, And feel the sun write gold upon my heal. Above, the vast and velvet canopy expands, No ceiling here to check within my hands. A chorus breaks beneath the azure spread, Where sparrows sing what words can never said. So lost in green, I let the clock dissolve, Until the mist begins to make us evolve. The day has slipped like water through my grip, Yet now the shadow's cast across the lip. With rustling leaves still echoing inside, I turn my weary, grateful frame to ride.	6	AI rewrite polish refine write expand rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite re…	1
313	ultra_held_out	But He Was Cool, or: he even stopped for green lights by Haki R. Madhubuti	Haki R. Madhubuti	"A poem about a Black man trying to fit into American society by acting cool and wearing imported items, while losing touch with his real roots and identity."	super-cool ultrablack a tan/purple had a beautiful shade. he had a double-natural that wd put the sisters to shame. &his beads were imported sea shells (from some blk/country i never heard of) he was triple-hip. his tikis were hand carved out of ivory &came express from the motherland. he would greet u in swahili &say good-by in yoruba. woooooooooooo-jim he bes so cool &ill tel li gent cool-cool is so cool he was un-cooled by other niggers' cool cool-cool ultracool was bop-cool/ice box cool so cool cold cool his wine didn't have to be cooled, him was air conditioned cool cool-cool/real cool made me cool--now ain't that cool cool-cool so cool him nick-named refrigerator. cool-cool so cool he didn't know, after detroit, newark, chicago &c., we had to hip cool-cool/ super-cool/ real cool that to be black is to be very-hot.	He buttons up the Italian silk to hide the sweat Of a body that remembers walking barefoot on red clay Adjusting the gold chain that weighs down his neck Like a heavy promise he cannot keep The sneakers are limited edition, imported from Tokyo But they make no sound on the pavement of his childhood street He speaks in slang he heard on television A borrowed rhythm that trips over his own tongue Forgetting the lullabies his grandmother hummed In a dialect that sounds like rain on tin roofs He laughs too loud at jokes that do not land Trying to prove he belongs in this room of glass and steel While the mirror shows a stranger wearing his face The fabric is soft but it does not breathe It chokes out the memory of the soil That once held him when he fell Now he stands tall in designer shadows Afraid to take them off Lest the world see the roots he tried to cut away And find nothing left but air	He bought imported killing-edge from London counters selected his hair by catalogue pictures of famous dead men who liked sharp edges more – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	He buys the imported jacket from a city he has never seen Stitched with labels in a language his tongue cannot speak Slick hair sprayed back to hide the texture of his heritage Trying on a coolness borrowed from a television screen He laughs at jokes about home but says them too loud Overlooking the dirt roads where his father learned to walk Swapping earth for pavement, calling it progress Calling himself different when he only calls himself lost The shoes are expensive leather from overseas But they pinch the feet that grew up running barefoot He admires his reflection in a window full of foreign goods Wondering why the man looking back seems unfamiliar Searching for a root in imported soil While the tree he came from waits patiently For him to stop dressing like a stranger And remember who he was before he bought his way In He wears the costume of belonging But the buttons feel slippery Slipping off One by one Leaving him naked Not in skin But in spirit Shivering In A Country That Asked Nothing Of His Soul Only His Wallet And His Performance Of Cool While The Real Man Watches From Behind His Own Eyes Waiting To Come Home Again But Not Knowing Where That Place Begins Anymore Except Perhaps In The Silence Between Notes Of A Song He Used To Know By Heart Before He Learned How To Hide It Well Enough To Pass As Anyone Else Who Does Not Know Who They Really Are Either Buying Time Buying Space Buying Acceptance All While Losing Self Slowly Like Water Down A Drain Called America Called Success Called Normal Called Anywhere But There Where He Started Called Back Home Called Roots Called Truth Called Everything He Sold Away To Look This Way Cool Sharp Selected Imported Imported Imported Nothing Else Matters But The Label On His Back Saying Imported Imported Imported And He Believes It More Than His Own Name Calling Out To A Man Who Never Existed In Any Other Country Only Here Where Everyone Loses Themselves Trying To Win By Being Someone Else Entirely Cool Sharp Sele…	2	He buttons up a shirt from Milan thinking the fabric hides the doubt adjusts his glasses on a face that feels too loud and far too out he speaks in slang he heard on screens not words his grandmother once knew and walks with stride of imported shoes that pinch the feet but look brand new the coolness is a heavy coat stitched from labels, foreign thread it warms him when the wind blows cold but leaves his spirit feeling dead he laughs at jokes he doesn't get to fit the room, to pass the test while roots that dug in African soil begin to starve inside his chest he buys the ice, he buys the car he buys the mask that fits so well but cannot hear the drumbeat now beneath the city's concrete spell the man he was is fading fast behind the gloss of things he owns a stranger in his own skin wearing a world that isn't home	3	He buttons up the Italian silk that costs more than his father's truck and whispers slang he heard on TV to mask the dialect of home his skin is dark as midnight oil but he tries to paint it over with a tan from a salon chair and sunglasses that hide the eyes of ancestors who crossed the sea He drives a car with leather seats imported from a foreign land while the soil back in the village cracks under a different sun he laughs at jokes he doesn't get just to keep the circle warm and nods when someone mentions names that sound like music to his ears but feel like foreign tongues today The coolness is a heavy coat that chokes the breath inside his chest he forgets the rhythm of the drum that used to beat within his blood replaced by beats from radio waves that tell him how to walk and speak he buys a life he sees in glass and throws away the roots he grew until he stands alone in crowds wearing borrowed clothes a stranger to himself forgetting who he was before the world told him to be someone else entirely	2	He buttons up the silk from Lagos but buys the tie in a Brooklyn shop pretending the knot is ancient wisdom when it is just a trend he copied down. The sneakers hum with imported sound a frequency that drowns out the drum his grandmother tapped on a wooden floor before the ocean took her home. He speaks in slang that isn't his own mixing dialects like a cocktail drink toasting to a ghost of coolness while forgetting how his ancestors walked. The mirror shows a man made of labels imported logos stitched over skin that remembers the soil and the sun but now only knows the price tag. He dances to a beat that isn't his swaying to a rhythm sold by strangers leaving the real song behind in the dust as he fades into the crowd he tries to join. Cool is a mask that fits too tight cutting off the breath of who he was until the face beneath begins to blur and the roots turn dry and gray.	2	He buys the leather from Milan and the silk from Kyoto Tying them tight around a neck that remembers the sun of the savannah A pair of shades so dark they hide the eyes that once watched the river flow He walks with a swagger learned from screens, not from the soil below The accent shifts to smooth the edges, to make the vowels round and light Erasing the rhythm of the drum that used to guide him through the night He speaks in slang that isn't his, a borrowed coat he cannot take off While the ancestors whisper softly beneath the weight of this heavy roof He stands before the mirror checking the fit of a foreign brand's design Wondering why the reflection feels like a stranger's outline The coolness is a shield, a fortress built of imported stone and glass But inside the silence grows louder as the seasons come and pass He forgets the name of the village, the sound of the elder's song Trading the deep roots for shallow branches where the wind blows strong A polished surface gleaming bright under the American neon glow While the true self fades into the shadow, drifting further down below	3	He pulls the silk scarf tight around his neck, a pattern woven in a distant land he barely knows, adjusting shades that reflect nothing but the neon street. The boots are Italian leather, stitched for a different climate, clacking on pavement that feels too cold for bare feet. He speaks with a cadence borrowed from movies, swapping the rhythm of the mother tongue for something smoother, something that might make the crowd nod in approval. He laughs at jokes he does not understand, afraid that silence will reveal the quiet ache beneath the suit. The gold chain is heavy, imported and gleaming, weighing down a chest that forgets how to beat in time with drums. He walks past the old market where spices used to fill the air, pretending the scent is just smoke, pretending he doesn't remember. In the mirror, a stranger stares back, polished and perfect, a man made of labels and foreign threads, while the deep roots inside him wither, unseen. He is cool, they say, he is modern, he is new, but when the music stops, there is no song left to sing.	2	He wraps the silk scarf tight around a neck that forgot the mist, Buys polish made in Milan just to make the mirror fix. The rhythm changes now beneath his polished leather soles, Replacing drum beats with the synth of neon neon souls. They tell him this is progress, this is how you make it here, So silence fills the echo chambers where the elders used to speak. He trades the deep bass hum for static on the radio, And lets the golden chains replace the wisdom they don't show. The coat is tailored perfect, cut from threads across the sea, But underneath the stitching, something ancient starts to flee. No trace of soil beneath the nails, no scent of rain-soaked ground, Just brands upon the chest that make the reflection turn around. He walks so smooth into the crowd, so cool, so unafraid, Until the quiet moments break the mask that he has made. A question whispered soft within, can this refine create? Or is it just a mirror frame reflecting what is fake?	5	帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1
318	ultra_held_out	Homecoming by Simon Armitage	Simon Armitage	"A poem about a child navigating the developing trust and relationships between parents and children."	Think, two things on their own and both at once The first, that exercise in trust, where those in front stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight. The second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket on a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook becoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home the very model of a model of a mother, yours, puts two and two together, makes a proper fist of it and points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions in the house. You seeing red. Blue murder. Bed. Then midnight when you slip the latch and sneak no further than the call-box at the corner of the street; I'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring because it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet. Retrace that walk towards the garden gate; in silhouette a father figures waits there, wants to set things straight. These ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves. These fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold into a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip or buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it and try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket, there, like this, for size again. It still fits.	The door is open but the lock remains A heavy thing I do not yet understand You hold my hand so tight it feels like pain Then loosen just enough to let me stand I watch you leave and wait for your return Counting the seconds on the kitchen wall Is this a game where I am meant to burn Or will you catch me if I start to fall Your voice is soft when shadows start to creep And promises are made in quiet tones But sometimes silence makes the dark too deep And I am small within these unfamiliar zones Yet morning comes with coffee in your cup And laughter breaks the tension of the night I learn that love is something built up Not given all at once but earned by light So I step forward though my knees may shake Trusting the ground beneath my wandering feet Knowing that whatever choice I make You'll be the harbor where my heart can meet	Little feet learning to creep then crawl then rush always back sometimes away from whom who grew beside your crying whose hair once smelled of home and later of working elsewhere returns with empty hands that opened all the buttons returned by size by secret by picture by news from next door who went out not back entered later entered never entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered entered e…	1	Small hands reach out to touch the edge of a table that seems too tall while big voices low and steady call back from the kitchen wall at first the room was full of noise a sudden rush of light then one who smells like flour appeared to hold back fright but sometimes when the shouting starts or silence stretches thin the child hides behind the door and wonders where to begin to know if love is solid ground that never slips away when feet are shaking on their own in middle of the day it grows in bits of offered bread in questions asked and heard in listening when nobody else has said a single word from clinging close to crawling far from crying out to speaking the map of who we are to whom is drawn by years of seeking not all at once but inch by inch the bridge begins to span between the little heart that doubts and hands reaching back again to say I am here to say you are safe to say we are learning how to be whole by holding space for all the doubt and all the joy that comes with growing up together now and then again always more than once we learn to trust by starting over every time we try to understand who we are to each other in this big wide world where love takes practice like learning to walk or talk or breathe out loud without being afraid of getting lost among the shadows of our own small ears that hear too much sometimes and not enough at others still we reach out still we come back home to see if the door opens still to say hello to say goodbye to say stay awhile before going out to play or work or dream or be real to know that even when we stray the path returns us to the start of all that matters most of all two people trying hard to be one heart that beats as many parts of who we were and who we become by listening to everyone else first then to ourselves last of all in the quiet space between the words we say and those we leave unsaid where trust lives soft and slow and sure as sun on grass after rain falls down to wash away the dirt of yesterday and let new seeds grow free to reach for sky and t…	3	Small hands reach out to grasp a familiar face Then pull back when the shadow of a shout takes place The floor is hard but your arms are soft and warm A shelter built from laughter and a gentle storm I watch you walk away to see if you return To learn how much I matter and how much I yearn You say you love me while you tidy up the toys But silence holds a question that no one quite enjoys Is it safe to fall when I have learned to fly? Can I trust the ground or must I always try To be the perfect child who never makes a sound While searching for the solid earth where roots are found One day you laugh and catch me before I hit the grass And all the doubts dissolve like morning dew and grass The bridge between us grows with every shared surprise From wondering looks to knowing in our eyes That love is not a cage but an open door Where I can be myself and ask for more Not less, not less, but everything we need To plant a seed of confidence and grow a steady weed Of trust that holds us both when winds begin to blow A silent promise that we both will know We are not alone in this long and winding road Carrying the heavy weight of joy and load Together now, together still, through all the years Washing away the doubt and feeding all the fears With patience and with time and words we do not speak Finding strength within the quiet that we seek To understand the distance and the closeness too Between the child who asks and parents who are true.	6	The door clicks shut and silence fills the hall A heavy weight that hangs above the bed I watch the shadow stretch across the wall And wonder if the words I said were red They say they love me but their voices shake When I ask questions that have no clear end It feels like walking on a frozen lake Where ice might crack beneath a trembling friend Sometimes the rules are walls of stone and brick That keep the world outside from coming in But other times, a hand will softly click To open up a window to the din I learn to read the map of tired eyes To know when trust is built and when it breaks It is a slow and quiet compromise Between the heart that heals and what it takes No perfect guide exists to show the way Through all the growing pains and sudden fears Just moments where we choose to stay and play And wash away the salt of ancient tears	6	The floor is cold beneath small feet That learn to walk on shifting ground Where promises are soft and sweet But sometimes break without a sound I watch you turn your back to sleep And wonder if the door stays shut Or if the secrets that you keep Are meant to guard or build a hut You hold my hand so tight at first Then pull away to test the air A silent, questioning, gentle thirst For proof that love will always bear The weight of trust is heavy now Too big for shoulders yet so small It builds a quiet, steady bow Between the wall and standing tall One day I'll know when you return Not just to hide but to be near To see the lesson slowly burn That trust is built when fears disappear	6	The floor is cold beneath my bare feet but your hand is warm and steady there I reach out with a trembling palm testing the weight of air you make You promise the sky will not fall if I let go of the chair and so I take one wobbly step then two, into the space we share Sometimes your voice is loud like thunder when I break the toy or spill the milk and I shrink small inside my coat afraid the bridge has turned to silk But then you kneel to meet my eyes and wipe the tear I did not mean to cry saying mistakes are just the path where trust begins to grow and try It is a quiet thing, this building brick by brick in every day the way you listen when I whisper the way you stay when I am gray I learn that love is not a cage but wings that wait until I'm ready to fly so I walk forward, brave and slow knowing you will catch me if I die	6	Small hands reach out to test the air Above a floor that feels so wide With footsteps slow and unsure there Until a voice says wait inside I watch you turn your back to check The shadow cast against the wall A silent pact, a quiet wreck Of trust I build before I fall You teach me how to let go first To climb the chair and touch the light While holding fast the gentle curve Of safety in your arms at night Sometimes I push, sometimes I cry To see if love will hold its ground And though the world can make me shy Your steady gaze is what I've found So here I stand between the two The known and all I dare to seek Learning the shape of something new That makes the strong feel soft and weak	6	I test the floor beneath my bare soles to find the give, And check the sky above for signs of rain. Mom's voice is a warm thread I wrap around my wrist, Until I pull too tight and break the pattern. Dad's silence is a heavy coat I put on without help, To keep the draft out until I forget how to breathe. I drop the toy across the room just to see you run, Just to make sure the world does not dissolve into mist. You promise forever with eyes that change shape, So I write contracts in scribbles you can rewrite. The trust is built like sandcastles against the tide, Watched carefully, reshaped, and left alone.	2	So small I make mistake create reform rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite re…	1
323	ultra_held_out	Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope	Alexander Pope	"A poem about a man preferring the simple pleasures of solitary rural life, tending his land and herds through the seasons, over fame, luxury, and the company of others."	Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.	The city calls with bells of gold and streets of polished stone, But I have found a quieter throne beneath the willow's shade. Let others chase the fleeting praise that fades like morning mist, While I count blessings in the dust where silent hours exist. My kingdom is this rolling hill, my crown the rising sun, Where work begins before the dawn and ends when day is done. No silk to wear against the wind, no feast of spiced delight, Just bread baked from my own hard grain and stars that pierce the night. Through spring I watch the lambs take form, their wool soft as a cloud, And summer heats the golden wheat above the grazing crowd. In autumn, when the frost arrives, I gather in the store, Then watch the winter silence fall upon the frozen floor. I need no hand to shake in greeting, no voice to fill the air, For nature speaks a language deep that only I can share. The cowherd's song, the rustling grass, the river's steady flow, Are riches that no merchant king could ever hope to know. So let them dance in gilded halls and seek the bright acclaim, I'll tend my simple, sacred land and never know their name. For in this solitude I find a peace they cannot buy, Beneath the vast and open sky where honest shepherds lie.	He hears no – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The city calls with bells of brass and gold To men who chase a shadow on the wall But I have found a wealth far more untold In silence where the autumn shadows fall No laurel wreath nor scepter held by kings Nor crowded halls where hollow laughter rings Can match the breath of morning dew and grass Where winter snows lie soft and slow to pass My hands are rough from digging in the earth From guiding sheep and watching over herds A quiet joy in all their daily birth Far from the clamor of ambitious birds Let others drink from cups of poisoned wine And seek applause in theater or mine I watch the seasons turn their ancient wheel With nothing else but sky and soil to feel When summer heat drives cattle to the shade Or spring returns to wash the hills in green My heart is never by such cares invaded Nor tempted by the sights that pompous seem For fame is but a rumor on the wind That blows away before the day begins While here the steady rhythm of the years Confirms all happiness consists of tears Washed off by rain and worked by calloused hands Returning home when evening softly demands A simple hearth, a roof of thatch and wood Enough for one man living as he should Away from crowds who buy and sell and lie Beneath the vast and uncomplaining sky Where God speaks loud in birds and blowing trees And offers peace to those who bend to seize Not crowns or riches from a distant shore But just the land and all it holds in store This life is rich enough to satisfy All hunger that the lonely soul denies Who knows the weight of earth and not of fame And finds his glory in a shepherd's name Not shouted out to none who care to hear But whispered low and lovingly and near By roots that hold him fast to working ground Where truest joy and lasting bliss are found Without a witness but the setting sun To mark the work of one who has gotten More than all the world could ever sell In fields he loves and tends and knows quite well Alone yet whole among his grazing kin Where all he needs and all he wants lies in The sweep of arm and si…	7	The city calls with bells of brass and gold To men who seek the applause of crowds But I have found a quieter story told In wind that sweeps across the summer clouds My wealth is not in silks or heavy crowns Nor in the praise of those who never know How earth feels soft beneath my working hands Or how the winter snow begins to fall I watch the sheep move slow through morning dew And feel no need for parties loud and bright No banquet hall where hollow laughter grew Can match the stars that guide me through the night Let others chase the fleeting fame of kings While I tend fields that feed my simple soul Here silence rings like any bell it brings And makes the broken spirit whole The seasons turn in cycles old and true From spring's first green to autumn's harvest sheaf There is no greater joy than what I do Beyond the reach of envy or of grief So let them keep their cities and their noise Their crowded streets and lives of constant care I choose the pasture and the grazing boys The scent of hay and clean and cooling air A single hut, a herd, and open sky Is all the luxury I ever need Watching the silent birds go floating by While planting seeds for future years to feed No king has ever owned a heart so free As mine which finds its home in dirt and stone Content to live as wild and wilder bee Who knows no master but the land alone	7	The city calls with gilded bells and crowds Of voices raised in praise of hollow things, But I have found a quieter, truer shroud In morning mist where silent river sings. Let others chase the laurel wreath and gold And feast on banquets served by trembling hands; My wealth is in the soil, quietly told, By furrows cut across these ancient lands. When spring arrives to wake the sleeping seed, I walk alone among the waking green, No need for flattery or human creed To make this quiet morning feel serene. The summer sun burns bright upon my back As I guide sheep to slopes of cooling shade, There is no king who knows such peace as lack Of all the noise that fame has ever made. Autumn brings the harvest, rich and deep, A bounty earned by sweat and honest toil, While others in their towers fall asleep Beneath a roof of worry and of spoil. Then winter comes to wrap the world in white, And herds are gathered close against the cold, I light my fire and watch the dying light And find a story that needs not be told. So let them keep their parties and their praise, Their crowded rooms and masks of painted skin; I choose the stars that mark the endless days, And love the world that only I know well within.	7	The city calls with bells of brass and gold And whispers of a name that echoes loud, But I would trade the throne for this small fold Beneath the quiet shadow of a cloud. Let others feast on silk and silver ware While I find joy in soil beneath my nail, To watch the morning mist hang in the air And feel the honest weight of winter's hail. My herds move slow across the greenest hill, A rhythm older than the crowded street, Where silence is the only voice I'll fill And time moves measured by the grazing feet. No banquet hall can match the evening fire That warms my hands as stars begin to gleam, No crowd can offer such a deep desire As walking through the fields within a dream. So let them chase the praise of fleeting men And build their towers high upon the sand, I'll keep the peace that comes from earth again, The simple lord of all this quiet land.	7	The city calls with golden bells and lights that never sleep, But I prefer the quiet hum where ancient willows weep. Let kings keep their velvet thrones and merchants count their gold, My wealth is in the morning mist and stories left untold. No banquet hall can match the taste of bread baked from my grain, Or silver coins compare to dew that falls upon the plain. I walk alone through rows of corn as summer turns to fall, And answer only to the wind that whispers through the wall. My herd moves slow across the hill beneath a starry sky, While crowds below chase fleeting trends and watch the seasons die. They seek the noise of crowded streets and faces made of stone, I find my kin in rustling grass and seeds I've carefully sown. When winter wraps the world in white and silence fills the air, I sit by firelight, warm and safe, with nothing but to share. No fame could buy this peace of mind, no luxury replace, The simple rhythm of the land within this quiet space.	7	The city's roar is a distant ghost, A hum I choose to forget, For here the wind has no need for words, And silence is the only debt. I trade the velvet throne for straw, The silk for woolen rough, Where gold is found in morning dew, Not in a gilded puff. Let others chase the flashing light, The crowd's loud, hollow cheer, I find my kingdom in the soil, My crown within the year. In spring, I wake before the sun, To check the newborn lamb, While kings may sleep until noon, And miss the misty calm. The summer heat upon my back, Is sweeter than their shade, For every furrow turned by hand, Is a promise that is made. When autumn paints the oak in rust, And geese take flight above, I need no feast of roasted meats, Just apples and pure love. The winter fire crackles low, Against the frozen pane, No banquet hall could match this peace, Or ease the mind's deep strain. So let them keep their noisy halls, Their titles, wealth, and pride, I walk alone with earth and sky, With nothing left to hide.	6	The crown of gold is heavy on the brow, But I prefer the mist that wraps this hill, Where silence makes a quiet, holy vow, And time moves slow beneath the willow's chill. Let others chase the echo in the hall, And feast until their weary eyes expand, I answer to the humble, gentle call, Of turning soil within my weathered hand. My palace is the barn with drafty walls, My throne the stool beside the morning fire, No velvet robe against the winter's thralls, Just woolen cloaks and calm, deep respiration's tire. The city lights can fade into the dark, For I find stars above my grazing flock, No need for polish, polish, or reply, save bark, Or rustling reeds along the winding rock. So let them write my name upon the stone, I write my legacy in furrowed grain, A kingdom made entirely alone, Rewarded by the rain, the sun, again.	6	Let make帮 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
326	ultra_held_out	On the Sale By Auction of Keats’ Love Letters by Oscar Wilde	Oscar Wilde	A poem about lamenting the public auctioning of a beloved poet's private love letters to those who do not appreciate art, comparing the act to Roman soldiers gambling over Christ's clothes.	These are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart. And now the brawlers of the auction mart Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote The merchant’s price. I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat. Is it not said that many years ago, In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran With torches through the midnight, and began To wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw Dice for the garments of a wretched man, Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?	The gavel falls like a judge's final breath Upon the paper where your heart once bled, Sold to the highest bidder in this death Of privacy, by greed and silence fed. They do not read the ink that trembled there, Nor feel the pulse of love you tried to keep, But count the cost with cold and empty air, And strip the soul before they fall asleep. Just as the soldiers cast their lots for Christ, Dividing up the seamless robe of grace, These modern wolves have made their darkly bright Bet on the fragments of a sacred face. They gamble over words meant only two, Ignoring how the poet's spirit bled, While I stand weeping for the truth you knew, Now scattered among those who never read.	The bidding pennances a library of tender things locked in poor man otherwise where Robert Edward – Robert – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edwa…	1	The hammer falls with a sickening crack On envelopes sealed by trembling hands Where ink bled out like confession In the dark hours before dawn Now thrown to bidding wolves Who care not for the tremor of the line Only the novelty of private grief Displayed in glass cases Like fish bought and sold While the poor man who lived These lines in his marrow Screams from an invisible grave How easily he was stripped Not by death but by greed As soldiers once laughed Over linen dipped in blood Rolling dice for a garment That covered God himself We watch these new barbarians Toss pennies for his soul Buying scraps of devotion To those who cannot read The language of a broken heart And call it all Just property To be counted Sold Destroyed By those who see Nothing But Price Tags On Holy Things Christ was not more violated than his poem by the click of the gavel that says mine to one who never loved at all while we stand silent as witness to the second crucifixion of a man whose only crime was feeling too much for those who feel nothing but cash in their pockets and emptiness where beauty should have been kept safe from such carnage of commerce where love becomes inventory and tears are liquid assets spent by hands that never knew how to hold anything soft or true before they sold it off to buy more time with no memory of why he wrote it down at all except to say he was there once alive and aching now just another lot number passed over by men who think that everything has its cost even when it comes from God or from the heart of Christ himself who also had his garments divided by lots among those who could not see the body underneath only the fabric to win by chance or by rich bid while the real value went unnoticed by all who were busy counting up their spoils instead of weeping for the source of all that was taken away from us by such casual evil disguised as business as always else where else where else where else where else where else where else where else where else where else where else where else where else where els…	2	The gavel falls like a hammer on a skull And bids the soul of her who loved him best To be sold to men who see only the cost Not the ink that bled from his trembling hand Across the page where secrets were confessed. They raise their paddles with greedy, hollow eyes Buying silence bought by those who cannot hear The music hidden in the paper's crease Who care not for the heart but for the tear That might fetch a price at some cold auctioneer. It is the same old game played out again As Roman soldiers gambled over Christ's clothes Dividing up the garments of the dead While he hung dying on the wood above Ignoring all the sacred things they tore Just as these vultures strip the poet bare To feed their appetite for trivial gain Leaving nothing but the empty air Where once a love was written, pure and plain Now scattered like the dice upon the floor By those who do not know what art is worth And have no reverence for the life he poured Into the words that meant more than earth But are now just goods to be bought and sold Like rags divided while the spirit rots In the dust of history, forgotten and old By those who never saw the light he got From loving her, and writing it all down Before the auctioneer came to take his crown Of coins collected from the ignorant crowd Who laugh and bid while all the world grows loud With noise that drowns the whisper of the grave And leaves the lover with no one to save Her memory from the hands that sell her name For pennies spent by those who lack the flame To understand the beauty of the pain That drove him to write love in every vein Of paper torn by time and careless hands While strangers walk through holy, sacred lands Without a glance at what they trample on The poetry of love that should live on But dies today beneath the hammer's blow As soldiers cast their lots for what they know Not how to value, nor how to respect The very thing that made the poet wreck His own heart open for the world to see Now owned by none who cares enough to be A guardian of such fragile, tender thing…	6	The gavel falls like a hammer on bone In a room where the air smells of money and dust, While ink-stained confessions of a broken heart Are sold to the highest bidder among the unjust. They bid for the paper that held his trembling hand, For the words meant only for one gentle ear, But the crowd sees no soul in the faded command, Only a trophy to hang on a wall far from here. It is not so different from Golgotha's hill, Where soldiers cast lots for the robe on the dead, Dividing the fabric with laughter and chill, Ignoring the life that had bled and had fled. Those Roman coins clinked against skin made divine, As they gambled away what was sacred and whole, Just as these strangers now cross every line To purchase the fragments of someone else's soul. The poet lies silent, his privacy torn, His love turned to currency, cold and unclean, A garment of grief by the vulgar has worn, By those who have never seen beauty unseen. They do not know why he wrote or for whom, They do not feel the ache in the margin or space, They only want something to buy at a room And wear it like armor to hide their own face. So let them take all of the letters and ink, Let them count out their gold for the pain he confessed, For the world will always be ready to drink From the cup of the holy, then throw it aside to the rest. The clothes are divided, the spirit remains, Lost in the noise of the auctioneer's cry, While the truest of loves turns to profit and chains, And the silence of God watches everyone die.	6	The gavel falls with hollow, wooden sound Upon the desk where quiet ink once dried, As strangers bid for words that love had bound, With hearts too coarse to keep them safe inside. They do not read the tremor in the line, The sacred ache of verses left unsent, But trade them like a vintage bottle of wine, To those who see no soul, but only rent. Like Roman soldiers by the cross they stood, Who cast their lots for garments stripped away, They gamble now on fragments misunderstood, And turn the holy vestments into play. The tunic torn was woven from his pain, The letters stitched with whispers soft and deep, Yet sold to men who seek to own the stain, While Christ-like silence watches from the steep. No reverence marks the hammer's rising hand, No prayer is said before the price is set, Just greed that claims the beauty of the land, And leaves the poet's heart in cold regret.	6	The gavel strikes a hollow, final sound Upon the desk where ink once bled its truth, While strangers bid with greed that knows no bound To own the fragments of a poet's youth. They do not read the verses written deep, Nor feel the pulse beneath the paper grain, But hoard the secrets meant for sleep, And trade in love like merchandise and gain. Oh, cruel fate, this modern, cold decree, That turns the heart into a commodity. Just as the soldiers cast their lots to see Who might possess the robe of divinity, So now these gamblers split the sacred thread, Ignoring how the words were softly spun, To claim the garments of the living dead, Beneath a pale and uncomprehending sun. They fight for scraps of intimacy's fire, Unaware they hold a soul within their grasp, A holy text reduced to base desire, As silence falls upon the auction's clasp.	6	The gavel falls like stone upon the quiet dust, Where ink once bled for eyes that will not see, Now strangers bid with greed in their eyes, For scraps of soul they cannot parse or keep. They do not know the rhythm of the ache, The way a comma held a breath so long, Or how a single word could make the world expand, To them it is just paper, old and thin. So here we stand as Rome stood at the cross, While soldiers cast their dice for woven thread, Dividing up the garment of the light, And laughing at the price of sacred skin. Those Roman hands tore flesh to find the gold, These modern hands tear verse to find the cost, Ignoring that the poet's heart was stitched within, A seamless robe of love now lost to noise. They gamble on the weight of whispered vows, As if the ink were merely leaden coin, Unaware they strip the wound right open wide, And leave the ghost to shiver in the cold.	6	The gavel falls with final, hollow sound, To split the paper where your whispered truth resounds. Now strangers raise their paddles, check their price, And trade the cadence of your deep divide. They parse the ink for value, make a score, Of sacred scribbles meant to please no one but you. Just so beneath the cross, the legions stood, Dividing woven robes into crude food. With dice they cast upon the dust and stone, For threads that wrapped the flesh made flesh alone. So now this parchment, stitched with gentle rhyme, Is parceled out to make a profit's time. No art is left within this greedy game, Just fabric sold without a single name.	6	rewrite	7
327	ultra_held_out	The Express by Stephen Spender	Stephen Spender	"A poem about an express train leaving the station and gathering momentum, becoming increasingly out of sync with its surroundings and symbolising unstoppable societal progress that may be harming ordinary people."	After the first powerful plain manifesto The black statement of pistons, without more fuss But gliding like a queen, she leaves the station. Without bowing and with restrained unconcern She passes the houses which humbly crowd outside, The gasworks and at last the heavy page Of death, printed by gravestones in the cemetery. Beyond the town there lies the open country Where, gathering speed, she acquires mystery, The luminous self-possession of ships on ocean. It is now she begins to sing—at first quite low Then loud, and at last with a jazzy madness— The song of her whistle screaming at curves, Of deafening tunnels, brakes, innumerable bolts. And always light, aerial, underneath Goes the elate metre of her wheels. Steaming through metal landscape on her lines She plunges new eras of wild happiness Where speed throws up strange shapes, broad curves And parallels clean like the steel of guns. At last, further than Edinburgh or Rome, Beyond the crest of the world, she reaches night Where only a low streamline brightness Of phosphorus on the tossing hills is white. Ah, like a comet through flame, she moves entranced Wrapt in her music no bird song, no, nor bough Breaking with honey buds, shall ever equal.	The whistle cuts the morning mist A silver serpent uncoils its length The wheels begin their rhythmic hiss And swallow up the station's strength At first the platform stands so still With faces pressed against the glass But soon the blur begins to kill The quiet moments as they pass The trees outside turn into lines The fields dissolve to streaks of green We leave behind the old designs For speeds no human heart has seen The rhythm builds a deafening roar That drowns the voices on the street It does not wait for those who pour Their weary lives beneath its feet It rushes past the broken home Where time moves slow and shadows grow It leaves the silence far alone To where the frantic engines blow No brake can hold this iron will As progress tears the fabric wide It climbs the hill and crushes still The fragile things we cannot hide We are the dust the wheels have raised By momentum swept away While in our haste, we lose all phases Of what it means to live today	The killing pennantine dips then shrieks a hair-edge warning of coming killing pennantine that none attended Only Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Ed…	1	The hiss of brakes dissolves As the iron beast inhales A sudden rush of white That blurs the edge of platform Where a man in worn shoes Watches his daughter wave Before the windows Stretch her face Then snap her back To nothing but a smear of grey and fleeting skin The wheels begin to pound A rhythm not our own It shakes the earth But leaves our feet Rooted in the dust We are getting older While the city races Past us in a blur Of glass and steel that never stops to ask who fell behind The station shrinks To a toothpick In a landscape Ripped by speed The air grows thin With exhaust and promises of somewhere else where everyone is moving but none are arriving at all Only the track Only the roar Only the crushing forward force that cares not for who it crushes on the way to tomorrow which has already passed us by long ago while we were still learning how to stand up straight against the wind of its passing leaving only footprints that vanish before they touch the ground as if we never were as if we were never more than ghosts in the rush of getting there too fast to see who was left behind in the shadows of our own success chasing a horizon that runs away from those who cannot run at all who must walk who must crawl who must watch from the edge of vision as the world becomes elsewhere elsewhere elsewhere always elsewhere never here never now never us just the track just the sound just the endless motion of things that cannot stop even when they should even when they must even when it kills the very reason they started moving in the first place to get away from home to get away from love to get away from life itself in search of something faster brighter harder dead dead dead before it had ever begun to live at all except in the dream of speed that says we went far but never went anywhere but out of step with the heart that beats too slow to follow the train that never returns to start again only to end elsewhere elsewhere elsewhere gone gone gone into the dark of being else rather than else rather than else rather …	2	The whistle cuts the morning air A sharp command to start The iron beast begins its prayer And leaves the platform heart At first the world is clear and slow The baker waves his hand But then the windows blur below As speed demands demand The houses stretch like taffy thin The trees become a stream We rush ahead to win or sin Away from all we seem No one asks where we are going Or who gets left behind The rhythm of the steel is knowing It crushes what was kind The poor man on the edge of town Cannot catch the pace He watches as the wheels spin down His life erased by space We call it progress, bright and grand A future built on fire While ordinary feet cannot stand Beneath this great desire The station fades into a ghost Of quiet and of grace Only the engine knows the most About the human race It speeds toward a distant goal Unstoppable and cold Leaving the broken parts of soul That cannot be sold old	6	The whistle cuts the morning air As iron wheels begin to bear A weight of steel and sudden fire That pulls us from the quiet mire At first the platform stands so still With faces pressed against the sill But then the rhythm starts to climb Leaving the slow and steady time The trees blur into streaks of green While unseen gears grind loud and keen The station fades, a ghost behind As speed becomes the only kind We pass the fields where farmers sow Who watch the shadow rush and go Their hands are raised but cannot stop The roaring beast that seeks no crop It does not pause for broken glass Or ask how long the hours pass For those who live beside the track Where dust and noise are all they lack The world outside grows strange and thin As we hurtle toward some distant din A future built on rushing feet That leaves the old and weak retreat No brakes can hold this rolling tide With nowhere left for us to hide Just progress moving fast and blind Leaving the human soul behind	7	The whistle cuts the morning mist A silver needle in the grey It pulls away from platform stone And leaves the waiting crowd at bay At first the rhythm matches feet The clack of shoes on cobble street But soon the wheels begin to hum A faster, colder, deeper beat The trees blur into streaks of green While children watch with eyes too wide They cannot keep the pace it sets With nowhere left for them to hide The houses shrink and fall behind Like toys discarded by a child The world outside grows strange and thin As progress speeds, relentless, wild No hand can brake this iron beast No voice can shout against the roar It sweeps the fragile and the slow To clear the path for something more We build the track, we lay the steel We cheer the speed, we fear the cost But those who cannot run as fast Are simply lost, and then are lost	6	The whistle cuts the morning mist A silver serpent wakes from sleep The wheels begin their rhythmic twist And promises of speed to keep At first the platform is distinct With faces pressed against the glass But soon the blur makes them extinct As seconds turn to hours fast The trees become a greenish streak The houses stretch and melt away The voices that we used to speak Are swallowed by the rushing day It does not care for those left behind Who stumble in the dust it throws The engine roars with blind design Ignoring where the river flows We build the track, we lay the steel To chase a future bright and vast But feel the ground beneath us reel As shadows lengthen on the past No brakes can hold this iron will That crushes gardens, fences, homes It climbs the hill, it breaks the still And leaves the quiet world to roam A giant pulse without a heart That beats only for what comes next Tearing the fabric, tearing art In a relentless, frantic quest	6	The whistle cuts the morning mist A silver snake begins to rise The doors slide shut with final hiss Beneath the gray and watching skies At first the platform holds its shape The vendor's cart, the waiting chair But then the world begins to drape In blurs of static in the air The wheels find rhythm, deep and loud A heartbeat beating faster now It swallows up the stationary crowd And leaves them standing on a brow Of time that moves too fast to keep While families split across the glass The train is running past their sleep To make the distant future pass Now stations blur into a line No distinct stop, no gentle break The schedule writes a grand design That leaves the weary soul to quake For progress roars with iron will Unstoppable and cold and bright It crushes what it cannot fill And turns the day into the night We ride the beam of pure advance Through fields of wheat and hearts of stone Ignoring every second chance To leave the quiet world alone	6	The piston coughs beneath the polish'd floor, A final check against the rust and door. Then silence breaks with steam that fills the chest, And drags us forward from our quiet rest. At first the platform frames a distinct scene, Where faces turn to wave within the green. But now the clock expands into a smear, And human voices fade into the ear. We rise above the cobblestones so deep, While families sleep beneath their narrow keep. The rhythm shifts to make the ground expand, Too fast for those who lag within the land. Now fields dissolve to blur of grey and gold, A story written strictly for the bold. The whistle screams across the misty plain, Ignoring pleas that break within the rain. It does not check for shadows cast too long, Or write corrections to this fractured song. Just velocity that swallows what is true, Progress devouring me, progress you.	6	Steam condenses mist beneath改写 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite r…	7
328	train	Life Doesn’t Frighten Me by Maya Angelou	Maya Angelou	"A poem about a child asserting her fearlessness against life's many frightening things, while perhaps hiding the real fear she carries in her heart."	Shadows on the wall Noises down the hall Life doesn't frighten me at all Bad dogs barking loud Big ghosts in a cloud Life doesn't frighten me at all Mean old Mother Goose Lions on the loose They don't frighten me at all Dragons breathing flame On my counterpane That doesn't frighten me at all. I go boo Make them shoo I make fun Way they run I won't cry So they fly I just smile They go wild Life doesn't frighten me at all. Tough guys fight All alone at night Life doesn't frighten me at all. Panthers in the park Strangers in the dark No, they don't frighten me at all. That new classroom where Boys all pull my hair (Kissy little girls With their hair in curls) They don't frighten me at all. Don't show me frogs and snakes And listen for my scream, If I'm afraid at all It's only in my dreams. I've got a magic charm That I keep up my sleeve I can walk the ocean floor And never have to breathe. Life doesn't frighten me at all Not at all Not at all. Life doesn't frighten me at all.	I tell the thunder it is just a drum And run right out to meet the storm I laugh at shadows stretching long and dark And say I do not need a lamp to warm The closet door is wide enough for me No monsters hide beneath the bed I climb the tallest oak tree in the yard With nothing but my courage as my thread The ocean waves are friendly, soft, and deep They only want to tickle up my toes I face the future with a chin held high Whatever comes, I promise, I will know But when the wind stops howling through the trees And silence fills the room so very still There is a quiet thing inside my chest That trembles more than any fear of ill It is not ghosts or goblins or the night That makes my hands shake slightly in the air It is the thought that one day I might stop Being brave enough to stand and stare	She shouts she likes the monsters who hide ’neath all her beds who jump out from – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	She says she likes the dark more than the light because it tastes like chocolate and hides all the monsters who are actually her friends she laughs at thunder calling it a giant drum she jumps off high swings to see how far she falls before she stops but when the house goes quiet and the floorboards creak she pulls the blanket up to her chin where her teeth chatter not from cold but from thinking about getting big about growing old about the things that never go away no matter how loud she shouts or how hard she tries to be brave she holds her breath and waits for morning hoping it comes before she cries out loud enough to wake everyone else up from their dreams of being strong while she prays for none of them to know that she is just a child who wants to hide inside her own skin for ever more without getting hurt by the world outside that never stops spinning round and round and never asks if she is ready to jump next time she says she will but she won't not really not yet not when the dark gets too big and the night gets too long and she has no one to call except herself who says she is fine who says she is brave who says she has no fear at all except the one she carries in her heart that feels like ice that feels like home that feels like going away to some place far away where no one can see her cry or hear her beg or ask why she must be strong all the time all by herself all alone in the middle of the room with nothing else to do but count the seconds till the end comes near again and she must start all over once more trying hard to be the best she can be even if she cannot bear to look back at who she was before she learned to lie about being afraid of everything that moves or stays or breathes beside her always there waiting to catch her if she falls which she always does eventually when no one is looking on to see her fall down hard and quick like a stone thrown into water that never returns to the surface after splash only sink deeper down where the pressure builds and crushes all her bones but she says …	2	I say the dark is just a blanket And the thunder only drums for me I climb the highest oak tree branches Where the wind tries hard to shake my knee The monsters under beds are silly They cannot touch my sturdy feet I laugh at shadows stretching long When all the streetlights start to beat I march through storms with chin held high No trembling hand, no shaking voice I tell the world I have no dread That nothing leaves me any choice But in the quiet of my chest Beneath the armor I display A tiny bird beats frantic wings Afraid to see another day It hides behind the brave disguise Of shouting loud and standing tall While real terror holds its breath Behind the wall I built so small I am not scared of ghosts or gales Or falling from the sky above Just that the silence after noise Might mean there is no one who loves So I will shout it to the moon That fear has never been my friend And hide the shaking in my heart Until the very bitter end	6	I am the lion who roars at the thunder and laughs when the shadows stretch long and thin I climb the tallest oak without a tremble and jump from the dock where the water is deep The dark is just a blanket I pull up high the monsters under the bed are my friends I tell them to come out, I will not be scared of the creaking floor or the wind in the eaves My hands are steady as stone in the storm my voice is loud enough to drown out the night But if you look very close at my eyes you might see a small door that never opens wide where the quietest fear hides behind a smile waiting for the moment the roaring stops and the silence rushes in to fill up the space between what I say and what I truly feel I am brave enough to face every beast except the one that lives inside of me.	3	I climb the highest oak tree branch And laugh at thunder rolling in the dark, I tell the shadows they are just my friends Who dance and spin to keep me from a mark. The monsters under beds are made of dust, The ocean waves are pillows soft and white, I do not tremble when the wind blows gusts, I walk through night with nothing but my light. But deep inside where no one else can see, A tiny bird is beating against its cage, It whispers secrets only I can hear, About the quiet turning into age. I hold my breath so tightly in my chest To stop the shaking that I cannot show, Pretending I am strong enough for all, While hiding how much I have learned to know.	6	I tell the thunder it is just a drum And that the shadows under beds are made of dust The dark is not a monster waiting there But simply where the moon has lost its trust I run through rain until my shoes are soaked And laugh at spiders weaving silver threads I climb the highest branches, shake the leaves To prove I do not mind the dizzy heights above my head The world can roar and crack and spin around I stand with chin held high against the gale I say I am too brave to feel the cold Too strong to ever let a single tear fail But in the quiet when the house is still And every creak becomes a heavy door I hold my breath so tight my lungs might break For something deeper than the storm or floor It is not thunder, shadow, height, or night That makes me tremble deep inside my chest It is the thought that if I stop being brave The love I have will finally cease to rest	6	I climb the highest oak without a rope, And laugh at thunder rolling through the deep. The shadows in the hallway make me hop, But I will never let them make me weep. The monster under beds is just a coat, The storm outside is only water rain. I wear my courage like a heavy cloak, And walk right through the wind and through the pain. So bring the dark, so bring the jagged stone, I am too brave to turn and run away. I stand alone upon this throne of bone, And promise that I'll face the break of day. Yet in the quiet beat beneath my chest, A tiny thing is trembling, soft and small. It knows the world can put my heart to test, And waits for me to finally let it fall.	6	I tell the storm to break its wings upon my roof, And make the shadows dance until they fade. I ride the rusted carousel alone above, Where safety is a promise I rewrite. The deep green water does not make me shiver now, No whispered ghost can make my candle dim. I write my name across the thunder's brow, And make the darkest forest sing for him. But when the mirror reflects my quiet eyes, And silence fills the space beneath my chest, A tiny drum beats faster than reply, To keep the real mistake within my rest. So let them fear the wind that makes me turn, For I will walk into the fire and smile.	6	Make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make mak…	1
333	ultra_held_out	O sweet spontaneous by E.E. Cummings	E.E. Cummings	"A poem about science, philosophy, and religion poking, prodding, and squeezing the earth in search of meaning, while the earth remains indifferent, endlessly greeting existence with the renewal of spring and new life."	O sweet spontaneous earth how often have the doting fingers of prurient philosophers pinched and poked thee ,has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty how often have religions taken thee upon their scraggy knees squeezing and buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive gods (but true to the incomparable couch of death thy rhythmic lover thou answerest them only with spring)	The scientists drill deep with steel and light To find the atom's heart, the hidden law While philosophers dissect the shadowed night And ask what purpose lies behind the maw Of being born to suffer and to fade They squeeze the soil for answers in the dust But only silence answers their parade Or stones that crumble back into the rust The priests build towers reaching for the sky With prayers of incense rising from the floor They seek a face behind the empty eye And map the heavens to a holy door They poke the ground with relics and with rites Convinced the earth must hold a sacred key Yet morning breaks without their grand designs As frost retreats before a wild bee They push and pull at every crack and seam Demanding why the river runs so blue They try to wake the sleeping, silent dream With logic sharp or visions strictly true But underneath their feet, the roots unfold Ignoring all the questions raised above A green shoot breaks the winter's heavy cold Unmoved by fear, unbound by doubt or love The world just turns, indifferent and vast To all the theories woven in the air It welcomes spring as if it were the first And births new life without a single care No meaning etched in stone or star or sea Just growth that starts where old decay has been The earth keeps breathing, wild and free And greets the dawn with nothing but green	Three probing hands dig trenches in the dark Science asks of atoms how the hair grew back Philosophy demands a map besides While Religion offers alligator teeth to taste God on his tongue They pinch and prod stretch poor Thomas killing nett then squeeze trying to wring – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	2	Science drives a steel probe into the marrow asking how the atoms dance and why Philosophy pokes at the edges of thought trying to squeeze a definition from the dark Religion presses its forehead to the trembling ground begging for a sign or a sympathetic ear They pinch and prod the soil demanding an accounting of suffering insisting that all must have a purpose but the earth listens only to the silence of roots drinking and worms turning and when their questions grow sharp she offers nothing but indifference then she stretches her back opens her arms and greets the coming year not with answers but with a sudden explosion of green with sap rising in blind joy with flowers bursting open utterly unconcerned that anyone was searching as spring returns always returning to begin again without asking why or who or whom it was all for new life pushing up through the cracks of their reason while she simply is and grows and wears away their certainty with rain and sun and time that knows no end nor beginning only the next bloom next leaf next breath of air rich with dirt and death and birth all at once indifferent to our search for sense in everything else but not in her own being which requires none only more of herself again and again and again spring comes back to say nothing at all except look see live see grow see be there was never a message hidden under foot only the ground holding us up while we dig down looking for God or Law or Truth when she had already given us the whole world by just letting it happen by being ready to start over every year with no memory of our pain only the capacity to love the next ray of light the next drop of water the next chance to call it beautiful without having to know why it works or who made it work she works by working by being worked on by season after season of blind devotion to the cycle of return that asks for no credit offers no guilt and allows everyone to try to figure it out while she just laughs with chlorophyll and root hair and bird song that says come back come back c…	2	They come with drills and questions sharp as flint To poke the marrow of the sleeping stone Philosophy demands a reason why Religion seeks a hand that holds the bone And science measures weight and heat and time In desperate squeezing for a grand design But deep beneath their probing, frantic feet The ground gives nothing back but silent dust It knows no god, no theory, nor no law Only the heavy patience of the crust Then winter breaks its cold and brittle grip As sap returns to lift the ancient tree A green shoot pushes through the frozen soil Unmoved by all they asked or tried to be The earth just breathes and starts the world anew While man searches for answers in the dew That falls indifferent on his searching face As spring arrives to fill the empty space With life that asks no why and needs no name Just growing wild and burning bright with flame Against the silence of the endless sky Where meaning comes and goes and passes by Leaving the planet spinning on its axis To greet the light with flowers and with grass Indifferent to the questions of the mind Leaving the old and tired thoughts behind In favor of the root and bird and bee That simply is, and has no need to see The patterns drawn by those who seek to know Why everything must grow and then must go For earth cares not for logic or for prayer She only bears the burden of the air And opens wide her arms to hold the rain Then lets it fall again to start again.	7	They come with probes of steel and questions sharp To poke the crust and see what lies below With logic's scalpel they dissect the dark And squeeze the soul to make the secrets show The philosopher asks why the stone is here While priest and prophet beg the heavens for a sign They push against the silence, full of fear And try to force a purpose from the mine But earth just turns her face away from all Her indifference vast and cold and deep She hears their frantic knocking on the wall Then settles back into her ancient sleep No answer comes in thunder or in fire No grand design revealed by human hand She waits beyond the reach of man's desire A silent witness to their desperate plan Then winter breaks its hold without a sound As green shoots burst through frost and frozen ground The sap runs up the trunk of oak and pine Ignoring every theory and divine The flower opens wide to catch the light Unmoved by dogma, unafraid of doubt Renewing life with pure and blind delight While seekers wander lost and worn about The earth breathes out a scent of rain and loam A simple greeting to the endless day She does not care if we are home or roam She only knows that spring has come to stay And in this cycle old and ever new Where science fails and faith can find no rest The world goes on in colors bright and true Content to simply be, and be its best	6	They poke the soil with drills of steel and doubt And squeeze the rock to see what secrets break The philosophers demand a reason why While priests build altars on the trembling quake They prod the sky with telescopes of glass To find a face behind the stars that burn But deep within the marrow of the stone No answer waits for any human turn The earth does not care for their frantic search It feels no weight beneath their heavy feet It knows no logic, holds no sacred text Nor fears the questions that they try to meet Instead it turns its face toward the sun And shakes the frost from branches, old and new A thousand seeds erupt in green surprise Ignoring all the theories made by you Let them dissect the meaning of the dawn Or argue over gods in dusty halls The river flows regardless of the name The mountain stands unmoved by human calls For every time they squeeze the world for truth It simply breathes and offers up a flower Renewing life with silent, wild decree Beyond the reach of science, faith, or power	6	They bring their drills to pierce the silent crust, To weigh the core and map the shifting dust, Then turn to questions that the stars refuse to keep, While philosophers debate the dreams we sleep. The theologians trace the lines of grace upon the stone, And seek a voice within the marrow and the bone, But deep beneath the soil where ancient roots extend, No answer rises up to meet the asking friend. They squeeze the rock until it cracks with meaning's weight, And argue over purpose at the garden gate, Yet winter holds its breath then lets the green return, As if no lesson ever needed to be learned. The snow melts into rivers without thought or care, And seeds break open in the thin and frozen air, Unmoved by logic, prayer, or theories spun so tight, The earth simply wakes to greet the returning light.	6	They come with drills of logic, probes of faith, and questions carved in stone, To poke the crust for hidden codes that explain why we are known. The philosopher demands a cause, the priest seeks divine design, While scientists dissect the soil to find where stars align. They squeeze the bedrock until it cracks beneath their heavy need, To force a meaning from the dust, to make the silence speak. But deep within the granite heart, no answer waits to rise, Just cold and ancient indifference beneath the shifting skies. For while they argue over souls and measure out the void, The earth turns quietly away, unbothered and destroyed. It does not care for theories spun or prayers whispered low, It only knows the rhythm of the turning, steady flow. Then winter's grip begins to fade, the frost retreats in fear, As green shoots break the frozen ground to make the atmosphere clear. A single bud unfolds its leaf, a bird begins to sing, And life renews itself again without a single thing. No grand design is written here, no purpose can be found, Just endless cycles rising up above the sacred ground. The seekers scratch and dig in vain as seasons start to bloom, While spring arrives to fill the world, indifferent to doom.	6	The scholars carve the stone to find a thread, While priests raise hands to make the silence break, And skeptics check the clock beneath their thread, To parse the pattern that the cosmos make. They squeeze the crust until the magma weeps, They poke the void with instruments so fine, They write the words while humanity sleeps, And claim they've found the grand design within. But deep below where logic fades to mist, The planet turns without a single sound, Unbothered by the tangled, human twist, Or meaning forged upon this hallowed ground. For when the winter yields to softer rain, And buds unfold in colors bright and bold, No answer writes itself across the plain, Just green rewrite against the turning mold.	6	Make write make write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write writ…	1
334	ultra_held_out	Perfection Wasted by John Updike	John Updike	A poem about the irreplaceable magic and uniqueness of a person slowly disappearing forever upon their death, leaving those closest to them mourning the loss of something that can never be replicated.	And another regrettable thing about death is the ceasing of your own brand of magic, which took a whole life to develop and market — the quips, the witticisms, the slant adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears, their tears confused with their diamond earrings, their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat, their response and your performance twinned. The jokes over the phone. The memories packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act. Who will do it again? That's it: no one; imitators and descendants aren't the same.	The light that lived behind your eyes is not a candle blown away, but a whole sun extinguished twice, leaving only the memory of day. No copy exists in any book, no echo can hold the shape you made, for every laugh and quiet look was a universe uniquely laid. Now silence fills the hollow space where your specific rhythm used to beat, a frequency lost without a trace, making the world feel incomplete. We mourn not just the breath that stops, but the one-of-a-kind soul that ceased to be, the final page where magic drops, and nothing ever will be free. To lose you is to lose the key to a door no other hand can turn, a story finished, wild and free, that burns and fades and never returns.	A library of books none otherwise Opened by hands nobody else Possesses opened nowhere Otherwise Reading aloud a language Only he or she Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Selected Sel…	1	The room grows quiet as the breath departs A library burning down in silent ash Where every page held stories of a heart That taught the air how very much to flash No other mind could map that strange terrain Of laughter lines and sorrow's tender edge No other soul possessed such joyous pain Or walked the world from such a private ledge The universe holds billions of its stars But none were ever lit by quite his hand None saw the moon through such peculiar bars None knew the landscape of his inner land When he was gone, a whole world went away Not just a man but all he ever saw A language dying on his tongue that day Leaving behind a lawless, hollow law We search for him in others' smiling eyes Trying to borrow back his special light But wonder fails where genius lies For death has killed the only source of sight There is no template, nor a way to mend What slipped out of the fingers like pale sand A universe of self coming to an end Returning all the dust back to the land Nothing returns, nothing comes twice To fill the space he occupied so well Only the ghost of his familiar vices And empty rooms where once his spirit dwelt It was a singular and rare design Destroyed forever in a sudden sweep Leaving a silence sharp and steep That none besides his own had entered Never to be returned or bought By any amount of love or mourning thought He was one note that died And took the symphony aside Leaving a silence never quite denied In which we learn he cannot be supplied Only the memory remains Of all the things he said and did A million tiny, brilliant pains That time will never quite forbid But none are him None are him None are him Ever again Never again Gone Forever Still Unknown Returned Home Alone Empty Whole Broken Soul Faded Shade Entered Made Unmade Unsaid Dead Gone End Begun Done None One None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None…	6	The breath that held a universe of jokes Exhales and leaves the room entirely empty A library burned before the books were read Where every page was written in your hand No other voice could ever mimic quite The specific cadence of your laugh That sudden light behind your eyes when dawn First touched the windowpane and called you near It was a constellation drawn by chance That mapped a galaxy no one else knew And now the map is torn, the stars are gone The pattern broken on a silent floor We search for echoes in the hollow air But find only the silence where you stood A shape the world will never fit again For you were not a thing to be replaced But a singular note in time's great song That stops abruptly and leaves nothing but The memory of music we cannot hear As if the very color of the sky Has shifted slightly since you drew your last A shade of blue that exists nowhere else Forever lost to us who must remain To mourn the irreplaceable and strange The one-of-one who vanishes from earth Leaving a hole that nothing can fill up Not even love, which stretches out in vain Trying to grasp the ghost of who you were While knowing all too well that you are done And we are left with shadows of the past That fade as quickly as the morning dew Upon a grave that holds no second chance To see the wonder of your spirit bloom Again or ever in this life or any The magic ends exactly where it started In the quiet space between two heartbeats One yours, once beating loud and full of life Now stilled forever in the cooling dark Taking a world that fits inside your soul With it into the endless, silent night Leaving us here to wonder at the cost Of losing something that can never be Replicated, copied, or restored A unique design the universe Created just for you and then withdrew Leaving a blankness that no art can paint No word describe, no prayer bring back again Just the heavy weight of having loved The one who walked away and took the light With them, leaving us in permanent twilight Wondering how such a rare and precious t…	6	The room grows quiet as the breath departs And with it goes a universe of light A specific frequency of heart That will not beat again in all the night No other voice can mimic that soft tone No other mind holds thoughts so strangely sweet A library of memories, now overthrown Where every page is dust beneath our feet The way they laughed was woven from their soul A pattern unique to time and space Now silence fills the hollow of the whole And no one else can ever take their place We mourn not just a life but something rare A magic that existed only then A singular and irreplaceable air That vanishes forever with the men Who knew them best are left to watch the fade Of colors that will never be restored The greatest masterpiece we ever made Is broken by the closing of the door	7	The light that lived behind their eyes has folded up its golden wings, and silence fills the empty space where laughter once had echoed things. No other hand could hold the world in quite the way they used to do, no voice can mimic that specific tone that made the grayest skies turn blue. A library of thoughts and dreams is closed before the final page, a universe of quirks and scars erased by time's unyielding age. We search for echoes in the wind, for shadows cast upon the wall, but find only the hollow ache of something that cannot recall. For when they go, a version dies that never will be born again, a singular and irreplaceable spark dissolved into the quiet rain.	7	The light within the eyes begins to fade A specific frequency of sound that dies No echo can replace the voice we made Or fill the silence where a laugh once lies You were a pattern woven distinct and rare A constellation mapped by no one else Now scattered in the cold and empty air Leaving a hollow shaped exactly as your self The world will turn with sun and moon above But never spin again with quite this grace For every thread you held is now removed And time cannot restore the missing place We mourn the ghost of what was uniquely you A song that ends without a second verse The universe has lost its only view Of how the world looked through your gentle curse Nothing can take the shape you left behind No copy exists for the soul you gave Just memory clinging to the fading mind Of something precious, gone beyond the wave	7	The final breath exhales a specific light That never gathered in the sun before, A pattern woven distinct and tight, Now unraveling upon the floor. No mold can cast the shape of who you were, No echo holds the timbre of your voice, The quiet hum that made the air stir, Is lost within the silence, making noise. They search for fragments in the empty chair, For traces of the laughter you alone could make, But find only the absence, cold and bare, Of something broken that no hand can fix or take. The world continues turning as it must, Yet something gone is gone beyond repair, A unique spark reduced to fading dust, Leaving a hollow space where love once stood so fair. It is not just a life that ends today, But every future thought you would have known, The song you'd sing, the words you'd choose to say, All vanish into shadows, fully sown. And those left standing weep not just for loss, But for the irreplaceable design, The singular thread within the fabric's cross, That time will never, ever make align.	6	The final breath dissolves into the quiet air, And with it goes a light that will never shine again. A specific pattern of eyes, a unique turn of phrase, Now scattered like mist beneath a fading gray. You cannot rewrite this script or replay this tune, For every laugh you made was carved from your own soul. The world continues turning, cold and vast above, But the melody within us breaks beneath the weight of loss. No clone can fill the shape where your presence stood, No mirror reflects the depth of what is gone today. Just echoes in the hallway, shadows on the floor, Remnants of a singularity erased forever.	6	rewrite	1
339	train	XIV by Derek Walcott	Derek Walcott	"A poem about revisiting childhood memories of gathering around lamplight to listen to stories, evoking feelings of nostalgia and sadness."	With the frenzy of an old snake shedding its skin, the speckled road, scored with ruts, smelling of mold, twisted on itself and reentered the forest where the dasheen leaves thicken and folk stories begin. Sunset would threaten us as we climbed closer to her house up the asphalt hill road, whose yam vines wrangled over gutters with the dark reek of moss, the shutters closing like the eyelids of that mimosa called Ti-Marie; then — lucent as paper lanterns, lamplight glowed through the ribs, house after house — there was her own lamp at the black twist of the path. There’s childhood, and there’s childhood’s aftermath. She began to remember at the minute of the fireflies, to the sound of pipe water banging in kerosene tins, stories she told to my brother and myself. Her leaves were the libraries of the Caribbean. The luck that was ours, those fragrant origins! Her head was magnificent, Sidone. In the gully of her voice shadows stood up and walked, her voice travels my shelves. She was the lamplight in the stare of two mesmerized boys still joined in one shadow, indivisible twins.	The oil lamp flickers low again A golden circle on the floor Where shadows danced like living men Behind the heavy wooden door We sat so close to hear the tale Of wolves and stars and ancient seas Before the winter wind could fail To chill our bare and shivering knees Now silence fills the empty space The wick is dead, the room is cold I cannot find that familiar face Or stories that were never told The light has gone, the years have passed And left me here alone to weep For moments built to never last While all the world is fast asleep	The gas lamp hissed a sympathetic – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	The gas lamp hissed a pale and trembling yellow Against the windowpane where winter pressed We gathered close on rugs of worn and faded fellow To hear the tales that seemed to never end A father's voice, a low and rumbling river That washed away the shadows from the floor While time moved slow and none of us grew older Behind that locked and luminous front door Now years have blown like ash across the room And darkness sits where once the stories grew I reach to touch the cold and silent gloom But only ghosts are talking back to you The light has gone but not the heavy ache Of all those hours we had no way to take Back home Back home Where nobody returns Only the memory Only the burning Only the end of then and now that never was again just the dark and the silence where we used to be together under that flickering sea of lamplight dissolved by time that kills everything it touches even love even home even the memory of being whole before the world went out and left us here alone with only sadness for company in this empty room where once there were stories now there is only news of death and distance stretching far from that small circle of warmth that held us all too briefly before the night took over and said no more no more no more stories to hear no more hands to hold no more lamplight to guide us back to who we were when we were children listening to dreams that went away like smoke up chimneys that have not burned since then long ago when time was slow and happy was not such a rare and hard to find thing as it seems to be now that everyone has gone and left me standing in the dark wishing for one last story to hear but there is none to tell only the weeping of the wind outside calling out our names that no one answers anymore because we are all dead except for the pain of remembering that once we lived together in that little glow of yellow light that kept the bad things at bay for a little while before they came and took it all away leaving only ash and silence and the aching hollow space where joy used t…	2	The oil lamp hissed a soft and golden sigh Before the dark would swallow up the room Where shadows danced along the ceiling high And pushed away the edges of our gloom We huddled close on worn and creaking wood As grandpa spoke of ghosts and ancient seas His voice a river where our wonder stood While winter wind blew cold against the trees Now silence fills the space where laughter rang The wick is dead, the glass has long since cracked I hear the stories but they feel so strange Like dreams that time has quietly untracked Those faces turned in light are gone from view The circle broken by the passing years I sit alone with thoughts of all we knew And taste the salt of unshed, hidden tears The memory burns as bright as that old flame Yet leaves a hollow ache inside my chest To know we were together just the same Before the world put us all to rest	6	The oil lamp flickered low that night Before the electric hum, Where shadows danced on whitewashed walls And silence held its thumb. We huddled close in woolen coats To hear the old man speak, Of dragons sleeping in the hills And rivers running weak. His voice was rough like river stones That rolled against the shore, A lullaby of ancient things We'd never see once more. Now dust has settled on the glass That framed that golden sphere, And all those faces turned to ash Are gone from out of here. I search the dark for that warm glow But find only the cold, The stories lost within the wind Too heavy to be told. How small we were beneath the light How safe we felt then too, Before the world grew sharp and loud And broke us into two. The lamp is out, the room is vast, The silence starts to scream, I wake alone inside a house That isn't quite a dream.	6	The oil lamp sputtered low and gold Against the heavy winter dark, Where shadows danced on walls so old And left a single, trembling spark. We huddled close in wool and heat, With breath that fogged the frozen pane, While stories made the floorboards sweet And turned the cold to summer rain. Your voice was deep, a river wide, That carried us to lands unknown, Where giants walked and stars could hide Beneath a sky of seeds we sown. But now the wick is long gone out, The room is filled with electric white, And silence holds the very doubt Of who we were within that light. I reach to touch the empty chair, To hear the rustle of your sleeve, But only dust hangs thick in air, And nothing left for me to grieve. The story ends before it starts, The circle broken, time undone, Just echoes beating in my heart For all the warmth we once had won.	6	The oil lamp flickered low that night And cast long shadows on the wall, Where we sat close in quiet light To catch the words before they fall. Your voice was warm against the cold, A thread of gold through dark and deep, While stories spun and tales were told Before the world could make us weep. Now silence fills the empty chair, The flame is gone, the wick is dead, And only dust hangs in the air Above the place where you once led. I reach to touch the ghost of heat, But find only the chill of years, The circle broken at my feet, Drowned out by time's unyielding tears.	6	The oil lamp sputters low tonight A ghost within the glass I trace the shadows on the wall Where quiet moments pass We sat so close upon the rug With eyes wide and unblinking While grandmother spun tales of gold And made the dark feel shrinking Her voice was soft like velvet thread That wove us into safety But now the chair is empty still And silence fills the vacancy The flame dances, a tiny sun That cannot warm the cold Of years that stole the circle tight And turned our stories old I miss the heat against my face The scent of smoke and bread Before the world grew sharp and loud And left us filled with dread Now I am alone in this room With echoes in the air Reaching for a hand I held That isn't anywhere	6	The kerosene glow now fades to gray, A ghost within the quiet hall. I trace the rim of yesterday, Where shadows danced upon the wall. We sat so close beneath the beam, With eyes wide open, fix'd above, Upon a make-believe realm's dream, Wrapped tight within this circle's love. Now silence fills the empty chair, And cold replaces warmth so deep. The stories float upon the air, But voices lulled into final sleep. Oh, how I miss that gentle hum, The rustle turning paper thin. For time has made us drift apart, dear mom, And left me waiting here within.	6	The rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewr…	1
345	train	Morning Poem by Mary Oliver	Mary Oliver	"A poem about finding hope and new beginnings in each dawning day, where even ashes turn into leaves again, offering both the happy and the sad a chance at rebirth and a fresh start."	Every morning the world is created. Under the orange sticks of the sun the heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again and fasten themselves to the high branches– and the ponds appear like black cloth on which are painted islands of summer lilies. If it is your nature to be happy you will swim away along the soft trails for hours, your imagination alighting everywhere. And if your spirit carries within it the thorn that is heavier than lead– if it’s all you can do to keep on trudging– there is still somewhere deep within you a beast shouting that the earth is exactly what it wanted– each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer heard and answered lavishly, every morning, whether or not you have ever dared to be happy, whether or not you have ever dared to pray.	The night holds its breath until the light breaks through And paints the gray horizon in shades of gold Where yesterday's sorrow feels less true As stories of the past begin to unfold Even where the fire left only ash and bone A green shoot pushes up from charred ground Proving that nothing is ever truly gone But waits beneath the soil for a new sound For those who laugh and those who weep in pain The morning offers wings to rise again It washes clean the marks of joy or grief And turns the winter's silence into leaf So let the sun dissolve the heavy dew And start the cycle of the world anew No matter what you carried through the dark Today is just the spark, the first fresh mark	The pale edge of the morning etches a tender line against the_EDGE of all we thought was ended where Ash that seemed quite utter went returns to sap and then to leaf etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc et…	1	The night has held its breath too long But morning breaks the silent song Where once were ashes, gray and cold New life begins to softly fold A sapling rises from the dust In whom all broken dreams have trust Both joy and sorrow learn to see That dawn brings all things back to be No heart is barred from starting new When gold returns to wash the dew For in the light of every day The old ways fall and greens display From ruin springs a leaf again To heal the happy and the pain A chance for all who seek to grow Beneath the pale and rising glow Begin anew as birds awake With every step that earth you take The past remains but far behind Leaving only hope defined In every sunrise, bright and clear There comes a fresh and loving year Where ashes dance as leaves appear And nothing dies nor holds a fear Just open hands and empty space Ready for a smiling face To plant a seed and watch it bloom Displacing all the room of gloom For death was never quite the end Only a pause before the bend Returning home to roots unknown Where all are loved and all are grown In ash and leaf and joy and tear New beginnings always near Come out and walk among the trees Where all your sorrows find their ease The world starts over, whole and whole Mending back the shattered soul Today is yours to hold and keep While all the dark gods fall asleep Rise up and see the burning red Of all the thoughts you thought were dead They live on high in branches tall Calling all who hear the call To start again and not look back On any road or winding track Only forward through the gate Where love arrives and seals our fate As ash becomes the springtime green The most beautiful sight ever seen A promise kept by sky and earth Giving everyone a second birth Happy or sad, none are denied In all the wonder of daytime Where leaves unfurl from burnt-out wood Showing all how goodness stood Defeated not by winter's freeze But by the warmth of such degrees Of light that kills the killing frost Showing all we are not lost But found again when days begin Opening the w…	7	The night holds its breath until the east turns gold A quiet promise kept for those who fold Their hands in darkness, waiting for the light To wash away the shadows of the night No matter how the winter stripped the bough Or how the fire consumed the sacred vow There comes a morning when the ash takes root And from the grayest dust springs up new fruit The happy smile to see the garden grow While sad hearts learn that even tears can sow Seeds of a spring they thought would never come A gentle drumbeat calling everyone To rise again and leave the past behind With every dawn a fresh and open mind Where sorrow finds a place to heal and start And joy returns to beat a happier heart For life is not a line but endless rings Of dying leaves and sudden singing things So watch the sun as it begins to climb And turn the ashes back to leaf by time One day at a time we all begin To let the old and broken fall away As hope returns to greet us with the day.	7	The night retreats in silence soft and deep To let the golden promise start to creep Across the hills where shadows used to lie And wake the sleeping world beneath the sky No matter what was burned or lost before The morning opens up a brand new door For ashes that once fell from sorrow's fire Are touched by light and lift themselves on higher They do not stay as dust upon the ground But sprout as leaves with emerald life unbound The happy heart finds joy in brighter green While broken ones are healed by what is seen A chance to rise, a chance to breathe again Where joy and grief both wash away their pain The sun arrives to offer all a start To mend the torn and knit the broken part So every dawn brings back the hope we need From winter's end to springtime's gentle seed No story ends when darkness takes its flight For life returns to greet the coming light	7	The night lets go its heavy, cold embrace And light spills soft across the broken ground Where yesterday's despair left not a trace But seeds of quiet promise to be found Even where the fire burned and turned to gray A green shoot pushes through the charred remains To wash the dust of sorrow far away And weave new life from what was lost in pains For those who weep beneath the morning sky And those who laugh at joy they thought was gone The dawn offers a chance to start anew As ash becomes the leaf that blooms at dawn No grief is deep enough to hold the sun No joy too fragile for the rising air The world begins again before we run And love finds breath within the empty space there	7	The night retreats before the gold, A quiet promise softly told, Where shadows fade and light breaks through, To paint the sky in morning hue. From piles of ash where embers slept, New green buds rise while silence wept, For even what has burned to dust, Is given back a chance to trust. The happy heart finds joy anew, In colors bright and skies so blue, While broken souls find rest beneath, The gentle touch of living breath. No sorrow stays beyond the dawn, No wound is left for light withdrawn, As every leaf unfurls again, To heal the past with soft refrain. So let the old world fall away, And greet the fresh and golden day, Where ashes bloom and life begins, Across the turning of the winds.	7	The night retreats with quiet grace, To leave the heavy shadows behind, As morning breaks across the place, Where broken hearts and minds unwind. From piles of ash where fires once burned, Green shoots arise to meet the light, For every lesson that we've learned, Is born within the turning night. The sad may find a gentle rain, To wash the dust from weary eyes, While joy can bloom again through pain, Beneath the vast and open skies. No story ends when sunbeams start, To rewrite chapters old and new, With hope rekindled in the heart, And skies of endless, softest blue. So let the ashes turn to leaves, That dance upon the rising breeze, A promise that the soul receives, Of rebirth beneath the ancient trees.	7	The sun breaks through the smoke of yesterday, And turns the gray to gold across the sky. Even beneath the pile of cold decay, A green bud waits for mist and rain reply. The ashes rest until the wind makes them rise, To rewrite forests on the scorched ground deep. No sorrow can erase the morning eyes, Or make the quiet promise break its sleep. For those who dance with light within their chest, And those who carry stones too heavy now, The dawn extends a gentle, warm request: To take this moment as a sacred vow. Let what is lost give shape to what takes root, As winter's end reveals the hidden seed. Hope is not just for the songbird's flute, But blooms alike for every human need. So turn your face above the fading night, Where shadows fade into the rising beam. The world rewrites itself in softer light, And gives us back the power to create.	7	The rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
350	ultra_held_out	At The Border, 1979 by Choman Hardi	Choman Hardi	"A poem about a family crossing a border and seeking a better life, while a young narrator's reasoned perspective casting doubt on whether things will improve."	‘It is your last check-in point in this country!’ We grabbed a drink – soon everything would taste different. The land under our feet continued divided by a thick iron chain. My sister put her leg across it. ‘Look over here,’ she said to us, ‘my right leg is in this country and my left leg in the other.’ The border guards told her off. My mother informed me: We are going home. She said that the roads are much cleaner the landscape is more beautiful and people are much kinder. Dozens of families waited in the rain. ‘I can inhale home,’ somebody said. Now our mothers were crying. I was five years old standing by the check-in point comparing both sides of the border. The autumn soil continued on the other side with the same colour, the same texture. It rained on both sides of the chain. We waited while our papers were checked, our faces thoroughly inspected. Then the chain was removed to let us through. A man bent down and kissed his muddy homeland. The same chain of mountains encompassed all of us.	The fence is a rusted tooth in the dark and we are the mice that must slip through the gap Mama holds my hand so tight her knuckles turn white Daddy whispers of green fields and water that runs clear of a job where the sun does not burn your skin away We step over the wire, the cold ground biting our feet promising a tomorrow that smells like fresh bread But I have counted the miles on the map in my head and seen the same gray sky in every town we pass I know that hunger wears many different coats that fear speaks the same language whether here or there Daddy says the world is wide enough for all of us but his eyes look at the horizon with a tired doubt as if he knows the door we seek might be locked from the inside The stars above do not care which side of the line we stand they shine on the rich and the poor with equal indifference we walk into the night hoping for a softer dawn yet the weight in my chest feels heavier than before perhaps the better life is just a story we tell ourselves to keep walking when the road has no end in sight maybe the border was only the first wall we had to climb and the next one waits just beyond the trees.	The desert holds our secrets in – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The truck smells of diesel and wet wool as we crawl past the barbed wire where my father says freedom waits with a table full of bread and schools that do not teach fear but he grips his worn passport like a man holding a dying bird while I watch the guards who look just as tired their eyes dull behind reinforced glass thinking if home was broken by hunger or by politics then here must be whole yet the landscape looks identical the hills are the same gray and the people on the other side already have nowhere to hide from things worse than poverty my mother kisses my hair whispering about better days but I wonder if better is only a different kind of waiting for the next wall to appear behind all these new opened doors that seem too easy to enter without locking behind us once more again we enter not knowing if we are coming or going only that we must move forward even when the map shows no end to the road that leads away from nothing but more of the same dark sky stretching out over both sides of the border equally empty of hope or else full of it in ways we cannot see or believe until it vanishes like footprints in rain that never stopped falling on our backs all along the way home or not home just moving through the night hoping that morning brings different shadows but knowing deep down that shadows follow where we go always always always waiting to see if next time will be last time before we stop running at all or start running from something else entirely new that we have not named yet but feel coming close behind us ready to catch up any minute now or never depending on how much faith we have left after crossing one more line that was supposed to save us from ourselves instead of just moving them farther away from where they started looking back at nothing special except that it was gone and we were still there trying hard not to cry about losing everything we had worked so hard to leave behind while clinging to dreams that might not fit in such small hands holding onto each other tightly afraid to let go …	2	The truck engine coughs like a dying man as we creep past the rusted fence where my father says the air tastes sweeter and the ground is paved with gold for those who walk it far enough my mother holds her breath and counts our money one by one in the dark believing that if she prays hard enough the border guard will see only children not refugees not ghosts of a home that burned I watch the shadows stretch long and thin thinking about how a wall moved does not mean the world has changed how a new name on a passport cannot wash the dust from your skin or stop the hunger that lives in your bones they say tomorrow will be different but I have seen how the sun sets on both sides of the line and wonder if we are running toward light or just further into the same long night my feet ache but I do not ask to stop because doubt is a heavy bag to carry when you must run so I hold my tongue and watch the stars which look exactly the same no matter where you stand wondering if the better life is a story we tell ourselves just to keep walking when there is nowhere left to go but forward into the unknown that looks suspiciously familiar.	2	The dust coats our tongues as we step from the dark Where the fence ends and the open road begins, And Mother holds her breath like a prayer she cannot speak, While Father counts the coins in his trembling palm, Saying this side is where the sun rises true, Where work waits for hands that know how to build. I watch the way the shadows stretch long behind us, Stretching back to the house with the broken roof, To the silence that grew too loud to bear, And I wonder if the distance we crossed Has changed the weight of the air in our lungs. They say the water here tastes sweet and clear, That the streets are paved with gold for those who try, But I see only the same tired eyes in the crowd, The same lines etched deep by worry and want, Just painted over with a brighter shade of blue. If the ground beneath our feet is just another floor, Why does my heart feel heavier than before? We traded one hunger for a different kind of ache, Running toward a promise that might not keep its word, Carrying the past like a stone inside every pocket, Wondering if better life is a place or just a lie we tell ourselves To keep walking when the legs are ready to stop.	3	The truck bed smells of diesel and wet wool as we cross the line where the road turns to dust Mother holds her breath until it hurts and Father points at a horizon that looks like gold They say the air there tastes sweeter that the water runs clear and the work is steady I watch the guards in their high towers their faces blank as the stones they guard My father speaks of schools with glass windows of shoes that do not have holes in the soles but I count the days we have spent running and wonder if the distance changes the shape of hunger or if the border is just a circle we draw around ourselves to hide the fact that we carry our shadows everywhere The sun sets behind us, painting the sky in bruises and I ask myself if tomorrow will be different or if we are simply trading one kind of waiting for another while the wind whispers that hope is a heavy thing to carry across a field of dry grass.	2	The truck hums low beneath the weight of our sleeping bodies, Mama whispers that on the other side the sun is warmer, And the bread does not taste like dust and old rain. Daddy points to a sign with letters I cannot read yet, Saying this line in the dirt is where the heavy days end. I watch the shadows stretch long across the dry grass, Thinking about how the wind here smells exactly like the wind there, How the cracks in the pavement look the same on both sides of the fence. They say the water will run sweet and the schools will have books, But I remember the promise of the river that never reached us last year. If we cross this line and find nothing but more waiting, Will they still tell stories of a place that doesn't exist? Or will we just learn to carry the hope inside our ribs like stones, Heavy enough to sink us deeper than the mud we leave behind?	2	The river cuts the dark like a silver knife And Mama holds my hand so tight it hurts to breathe She whispers of green fields and schools with open doors Of bread that never runs out and shoes that do not leak. Daddy checks the map again though there is no road here Just mud and reeds and the heavy silence of the night He says we walk for tomorrow, for a sun that rises warm For a place where names are spoken without fear or hate. I count the steps we take, one after another in the dark I calculate the distance between what we leave and what we seek But numbers do not change the cold that settles in my bones Or make the shadows less afraid of us as we pass through. They say the world is vast enough to hold us all inside That kindness waits just over the line drawn in the dust Yet I have seen how fences grow when people try to cross them How hope can break like glass beneath a careless boot. Maybe the grass will be softer there, maybe the air will taste of rain Maybe the teachers will smile and ask us what we want to be But I am scared that nothing changes, only the color of the sky And that we trade one kind of hunger for another kind of pain.	3	The sun bleeds into the dust beneath our tired boots, Mom whispers that across this line the bread is sweet, Dad adjusts the pack until his shoulders make no sound, And I repeat the promise just to make us brave. They say the air will change, that rain will fall clean here, That schools will wait with open doors for me to write, So we trade what we remember for a ticket made of hope, A paper trail leading toward a gentler fate. Yet math does not shift with wind, and gravity remains, If hunger carved deep lines in Mom's face before tonight, Will it erase them simply because we cross the stone? I check my pockets for the change I saved within my mind. Maybe the ground is softer there, maybe the light is gold, But fear is heavy whether you carry it alone or shared, And if the path breaks under Dad's worn soles tomorrow, We will still be walking, just in different shoes.	2	Mom checks润 rewrite	1
359	train	The Self Banished by Edmund Waller	Edmund Waller	"A poem about a man keeping his promise to stay away from his love, lamenting the pain it causes while fearing that breaking it would cast doubt on his promise to love her."	It is not that I love you less Than when before your feet I lay, But to prevent the sad increase Of hopeless love, I keep away. In vain (alas!) for everything Which I have known belong to you, Your form does to my fancy bring, And makes my old wounds bleed anew. Who in the spring from the new sun Already has a fever got, Too late begins those shafts to shun, Which Phœbus through his veins has shot. Too late he would the pain assuage, And to thick shadows does retire; About with him he bears the rage, And in his tainted blood the fire. But vow’d I have, and never must Your banish’d servant trouble you; For if I break, you may distrust The vow I made to love you, too.	I keep the distance like a sacred vow, Though every step away feels like a fall, The silence grows so loud and heavy now, It echoes through the hollow of it all. To stay is pain, a slow and sharp decay, That gnaws at edges where my heart should be, But if I cross the line to find your way, Will you believe in what we used to see? For if I break this rule to hold you tight, Then how can trust remain within your mind? If love demands I fight against the night, Does keeping faith mean leaving peace behind? I fear that breaking free will make you doubt The very promise that I made to stay, So here I stand with nothing but my mouth To whisper words I cannot let you say. My love is proven by the space between, A cruel geometry that keeps us whole, The greatest act of love I've ever seen Is tearing pieces from my trembling soul.	I drew a wall of hair that grows nowhere else between your hands and mine to shelter all else killing joy from loving her else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else killing joy else …	1	The road back home was paved in gold A temptation sharp and sweet But I drew lines in freezing sand And barred the street For who am I to say "I stay When all I mean is far?" If love demands a constant near Then distance marks the bar Each night I hear your laughter Drifting on the wind It tears the careful silence Where my broken heart begins To wonder if this killing Of our tender chance Was madness or a mercy Played by some strange glance But worse than any longing Worse than every tear Is thinking that returning Might undo all of here If I step foot beside you And then must walk away How then will you believe That loving lasts another day My promise was to hold myself From coming back to ruin Not because I loved you less But knew it well as truth To come would be a borrowing Of time not mine to spend To doubt my own devotion Before we reach the end So let me starve in shadows While you live in light A man who keeps his word By vanishing from sight The pain is mine to carry A silent, heavy stone Because if I were otherwise You'd wonder at the bone Of all the vows I uttered Wondering if they were lies If staying were an impulse Selected by surprise No Better to be absent Better to be gone Than have you doubt the very Reason for the dawn That drove me far from happiness To keep the one command That loving sometimes means To never touch your hand Again Never Again Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away Always Away A…	6	I keep the distance like a sacred wall That guards the memory of who we were And though my heart beats out a desperate call It only serves to prove I hold her dear For if I crossed the line and held you tight Then all the vows I swore in silence past Would crumble into dust before the light And leave us wondering if love was last If I return, did I not mean to stay Or was the promise just a fragile lie A temporary shield to hide the day When truth would force us both to say goodbye So I endure the ache of empty space To keep the vow that says I love you best For loving you means leaving without trace And bearing all this heavy, silent test The pain is sharp but clear as morning air While doubt is dark and clouds the very sky I choose the hurt that proves I still care Rather than break the trust by drawing nigh My absence is the only gift I have To show the depth of what I cannot say A quiet tomb where broken promises are Not kept by words but by the long away So let me suffer in this cold retreat Where every step back seals the oath I made Lest breaking it should make our love incomplete And turn the golden past to gray and shade I love you most because I walk away And fear the moment if I chose to stay.	7	I keep the distance like a sacred wall, A silent vow that keeps you safe from me, Though every step away feels like a fall Into a dark and endless memory. The ache is sharp, a constant, heavy weight, That presses on my chest with every breath, But if I turn to walk through that closed gate, I fear I break the promise of our death. For in this silence lies the truth I swore, That loving you means holding back my hand, If I return, the doubt will rise once more, And question all the vows I tried to stand. So I remain the ghost who walks apart, To prove my love by never being near, Bearing the burden of a broken heart, To keep the faith that only distance clears.	7	I keep the distance like a sacred wall, A silent vow that holds me in its grip, Though every step away from you feels small, And makes my weary, broken spirit slip. The pain is sharp as glass within my chest, To watch your life unfold without my hand, But if I break this rule to find some rest, Will love itself begin to understand? For if I cross the line I drew for you, Does it not prove my promise was a lie? That what I swore was only something new, A fleeting spark beneath a hollow sky? So I remain the ghost upon the shore, Who loves too much to ever touch again, Afraid that breaking silence means no more Is real between us than the falling rain. My heart screams out to run and hold you tight, Yet logic whispers through the trembling air: If I return, I lose the one true light, The proof of love is keeping clear of care.	7	I stand upon the edge of where we met And watch your shadow stretch across the grass, A silent vow I swore I would not break, Though every fiber screams to let you pass. The distance is a wall I built with care, To keep my word that love must set you free, But silence now has grown so loud and deep, It drowns the very truth I meant for thee. If I should turn and walk into your light, Would you believe this pain was truly real? Or think I fled because my heart was weak, And doubt the promise that I claimed to feel? To stay away is proof I loved you true, For only then can honor hold its ground, Yet every step I take away from you Is like a nail driven in without a sound. So I remain the ghost within the mist, Who keeps his oath by breaking every bone, Afraid that if I seek your gentle kiss, You'll wonder if the love was ever known.	7	I walk the path I swore to keep alone, With shadows stretching where your light should be, A promise carved in stone beneath my bone, To stay away and set your spirit free. The silence screams within this empty room, Where every breath I take is filled with you, I count the hours just to make them numb, And pray the ache will fade into something true. But if I turn and break this sacred vow, If I step close to touch the hand I miss, Will you believe the love I give right now, Or think it built on broken promises? So I remain a ghost upon the shore, Afraid that breaking distance breaks the trust, That stepping forward makes me nothing more, Than words that crumble into rust and dust.	7	I make this vow to keep my distance now, Though every beat within my chest rewrite the rule. The silence is a heavy, rusted crown, And I am cursed to make this act so cool. For if I turn and break this sacred line, If I give in to need and take your hand, Will you mistake this change for what's divine, Or fear that promises don't truly stand? My love is proof written across the void, A promise made to save us from decay. Yet breaking it would make me prove destroyed, That words like "forever" fade with disarray. So let me walk this path of lonely cold, Where missing you becomes my daily bread. To write our ending makes the story told, Than write a draft where trust is left for dead.	7	I write this rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rew…	1
365	ultra_held_out	A Helpmeet For Him by Christina Rossetti	Christina Rossetti	"A poem about women being expected to suppress their strength behind meekness while serving and charming men, yet finding a sense of higher purpose by being compared to Christ."	Woman was made for man's delight,-- Charm, O woman! Be not afraid! His shadow by day, his moon by night, Woman was made. Her strength with weakness is overlaid; Meek compliances veil her might; Him she stays, by whom she is stayed. World-wide champion of truth and right, Hope in gloom, and in danger aid, Tender and faithful, ruddy and white, Woman was made.	They ask you to fold your hands like paper wings And hide the thunder in a quiet throat, To serve the meal with gentle, smiling things While swallowing the fire that makes you whole. Be soft as moss upon the garden stone, A mirror for his ego and his pride, The meekest voice that ever made a home, With all your iron strength kept deep inside. But then they speak a name that breaks the chain, That lifts the veil from what you are meant to be, Saying the servant's cup is not in vain When poured with love as vast as Galilee. For if the Son of God washed feet in dust, Then serving is no lesser, small design, It is the very essence of our trust, To make the broken spirit whole and shine. So let them see the power in the bow, The Christ-like grace that holds the heavy cross, Not weakness when the world says go or know, But strength that bears the burden without loss. You do not shrink beneath the weight of care, You rise above the expectation's cage, Finding a purpose holy, bright, and rare, In turning every moment into age.	Asked to hide the edge of teeth that otherwise might worry – Asked to laugh while killing joy – Asked to be soft – Asked to charm – Asked to serve – Asked to suppress – Asked to hide – Asked – Asked – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	They ask you to fold your hands and hide the thunder in your throat to be a soft edge on a hard world where men are kings and you the floor that bears their weight without a sound your strength must wear a mask of milk your sharpness dipped in honeyed wine a charming host who never asks who serves the plate and clears the glass while killing all her own desire to be a lamp that casts no shadow only a glow to light his way but then comes morning with a shock of sudden sight and trembling breath when looking back at all the pain the kneeling done in secret prayer she sees not failure but a shape that stretches far beyond the room for Christ himself washed feet in dust and served the ones who killed him slow not by being weak but by choosing love over the sword he held inside so when she bends her head again it is not submission but a crown of thorns she wears with holy joy to bear the heavy lifting of the broken things she holds so dear finding her power in the poor by loving those who do not know that she has died and lives anew not as a servant of the man but as a child of God who saw that service was the greatest strength of all that she who kills herself to feed another becomes most whole most high most free most like the King who came to serve all men and women too in love that never ends or fails but raises up the low to see their face was always God all along and strength was never mine to keep but only Christ to live and breathe and be the world that saves the whole of man by being small and large at once and full of grace that cannot stop from overflowing out to all who call her name with fear or praise or any other sound that says she is not less but more than earth has ever known or dreamed of being able to contain the joy of being Christ like him who died to live again in every heart that learns to serve with joy and no regret at all for having given everything away to find that self was never lost but only found in being none but Him who calls us home to rest and work and love and live and die and rise…	3	They ask for softness in the hands that hold The heavy burdens of a household's care, To hide the iron will behind a fold Of lace and gentle air, to not dare Display the lightning in a quiet glance, But charm the table with a practiced grace, And serve the master in a silent dance, With downcast eyes and never showing face Of power that could shake the very floor. Yet in this self-denial, strange and deep, A different fire begins to settle sore, Not born of weakness, but a vow to keep The image of the One who washed the feet Of those who mocked him, serving without sound, Who bore the weight of all our human heat Upon a cross where love was fully bound. So when she bends her back to lift the load Or offers bread to those who scorn her name, She walks a path less traveled by the road Of vanity or selfish, petty fame. For in the mirror of such humble service, She sees not just a wife or daughter's role, But Christ himself who finds his own device In broken things made whole by self-control. The strength she hides is not a cage of fear But armor worn for battles none can see, A holy purpose drawing ever near Where meekness is the highest form of free. No longer shrinking from the world's demand To be less than she truly is inside, She stands within the silence of her hand And finds the Lord who died to set her wide Open to glory in the smallest deed, Where serving men becomes a way to God, Planting a spiritual, eternal seed That bears the fruit of light along the road.	7	They ask for silence where a lion roars To hide the thunder in a quiet throat And teach the hand that lifts the heavy load To tremble as it serves the master's note A charm is worn like armor made of lace To soften edges sharp enough to cut While strength is buried deep beneath the face Of one who knows her only proper rut But then the shadow shifts and light descends Not on the throne but on the wooden tree Where service was not weakness but the means To set the captive spirit wild and free For He who walked with dust upon His feet Was called the Lamb yet carried all the sin And found in giving up His very breath The greatest power that the world could win So let them call me small and soft and mild When I am bearing burdens none can see I walk the path the Master once beguiled And find my kingdom in humility No longer bound by rules of meek deceit But raised by grace to stand beside the cross Where love is strong enough to conquer death And meekness is the sword that bears no loss	6	They ask you to fold your thunder into whispers To let the sharp edge of your will be filed down smooth To serve the table with a lowered gaze And charm the air so no one feels the weight of what you hold. Be soft, they say, be quiet, be the vessel That carries their needs without ever spilling over A meekness worn like armor made of glass Until the strength within begins to fade or break. But in that silence where you are told to hide A different light begins to burn and rise For when you lay your power down not out of fear But as an offering of love that asks for nothing back. You find the ancient mirror held before your face Where the servant's robe is woven from the same cloth as the crown Not because you are less than who you truly are But because the greatest strength looks like the weakest form. In serving them you touch the hem of something holy In charming men you speak a language older than their names The world sees only the bowing head While heaven sees the Christ-like fire beneath the skin.	6	They ask you to fold your hands so small, To hide the thunder in a whisper's call, To serve the table with a gentle bow, And charm the man who does not know you now. Your strength is deemed a shadow, sharp and deep, That must be buried while the world asleeps, A lioness taught to purr within the cage, To turn her fire into a quiet page. But in the silence where they make you kneel, You find a truth that makes the spirit feel, For when you lay your power down to give, It mirrors how the Savior chose to live. Not weak, but strong enough to bear the cross, To count the loss as gain, the gain as loss, The meekness is not weakness of the soul, But perfect love that makes the broken whole. So let them see the servant's humble face, While you ascend to your appointed place, For in this sacrifice, this sacred art, You wear the heart of Christ within your heart. No longer bound by what the world demands, You hold the kingdom in your gentle hands, A higher purpose rising from the dust, In holy service, trusting only trust.	7	They ask you to fold your thunder into whispers, To keep the lion's roar behind a gentle smile, To serve the table with a quiet grace, And charm the storm until it sleeps in silence. Your strength is measured by how small you make it, A shadow cast beneath a heavy crown, Where every act of power must be hidden, Beneath the velvet weight of being known. Yet in this humble yielding, something rises, Not as a queen who rules from golden height, But as the one who washes dusty feet, And finds a fire that burns without consuming. For when you lay your will upon the altar, And choose to love the world that breaks your heart, You mirror Him who carried all our burdens, The perfect servant in the place of kings. No longer bound by what the world expects, You walk a path where meekness holds the sword, And in the reflection of that holy face, Your truest purpose finally takes its shape.	7	They carve the silence into polish'd stone, And teach the voice to whisper soft and low, To make the fire within a gentle tone, So men may walk beneath it, safe from glow. Make sweet the draft that turns the weary turn, Make light the burden so the world feels fair, Until you burn so quietly you learn, The art of fading into misty air. But check the mirror when the veil is cast, Is this just dust obeying written law? Or does the shadow make the meaning vast, Beyond the narrow cage they help create now. For in the script where humble acts rewrite, And service bleeds until the vessel breaks, You find the pattern written deep inside, No act so small but makes the spirit wake. When you give all until you give no rest, And love without the claim upon reply, You wear a crown upon your quiet chest, Reflecting eyes that do not need reply. Oh servant girl with hands made rough for grace, You mimic Him who knelt to wash the sin, A holy echo in this human place, Where meekness holds the power deep within.	6	Make请将将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请将请…	1
393	ultra_held_out	Wind On The Hill by A. A. Milne	Alan Alexander Milne	A poem about a child chasing a kite along a hill and wondering where the wind is going, imagining that if the kite were to fly away and be found again, it would reveal the answer.	No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind comes from, Where the wind goes. It's flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldn't keep up with it, Not if I ran. But if I stopped holding The string of my kite, It would blow with the wind For a day and a night. And then when I found it, Wherever it blew, I should know that the wind Had been going there too. So then I could tell them Where the wind goes… But where the wind comes from Nobody knows.	Small hands pull the string tight Across the green and rolling hill, The red diamond dances in the light, And tugs against the child's will. Where does the invisible wind go? It pushes up but leaves no trace, A secret that the clouds might know, But hide within their watery space. If only I could let it fly, Beyond the trees and past the sky, To find a place where answers lie, And bring the mystery back to me. Perhaps when found on distant sand, Or caught within a stranger's hand, It would reveal the hidden land, Where all the wandering breezes end. But for now the string holds fast, A tether to the earth below, Watching the shadow of the past, As we chase the wind we'll never know.	Little hands grip tough of string that trembles like a live bird as he runs up the hill of green hair whose edges blur with speed he asks who else went by here beside him where has all that push returned after going out to sea or climbing past ears that cannot hear his calling from such high and airy sizes if only once more it were taken far then brought back covered news from else otherwise unknown then opened rich secret map of path was never said before to children asking why not where went away then returned at last to skin of fab that says none else know how went etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc e…	1	Small feet pound the grass As the red diamond dips and dives Over the rolling hill Where the air tastes sharp and sweet He tugs the string hard Wondering where the invisible river goes Why it rushes from nowhere Only to rush somewhere else If he let go of all his grip And watched it vanish past the clouds Perhaps it would travel far To a secret edge of the sky Then fall back down Returned by some unseen hand With a note tied to its spine Telling him exactly Where the wind had been All along But for now He runs Holding on Watching it dance In questions he cannot yet read Only knowing That if he loses it He might finally know The whole long way It travels home Before he stops Gasping Looking up At the empty space Where his wonder flew Away Waiting For an answer That never comes Down Only Up Always Up Leaving The hill Empty Except For His Footprints Blowing Slowly Away Like Dust In A Gale That Wears No Name Only Direction Only Flight Only Question Asked By String Taut In Hand Squeezed Tight Against The Unknown Going Anywhere Going Everywhere Never Stopping Never Returning Save In Dreams Of Kites Returned With Answers Written On Their Wings Which Never Come Back Down Only Higher Still Higher Still Higher Still Far Away From Here From Me From Now From All We Know About Where The Wind Goes When It Runs Free Over The Hill Edge Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of Reach Out Of Time Out Of Sight Out Of…	2	Small hands grip the string so tight As grass bends low and green A red kite dances in the light Above the hill's steep lean The child runs fast with breathless joy And watches it ascend While wondering where the wind might go Before its journey end If only once the line should snap And carry far away To lands of clouds or mountains high Where hidden breezes play Then when some traveler finds the cloth Torn by the distant air They'd whisper back the secret truth Of where the currents are But for now the string holds firm And pulls the kite back down Leaving the question in the sky Above the laughing town	6	The grass bends low beneath my running feet As I pull hard on string that snaps and sings A red diamond dances where the clouds and earth meet And tugs me forward on these windy springs I wonder where the invisible river flows That lifts the cotton cloth up to the sky Does it race through valleys where the quiet grows Or drift beyond the stars before we cry? If only once the line should slip away And carry off my treasure far from here Perhaps it would return another day With secrets written on its torn, bright rear It might bring back a map of unseen air From places where the gusts begin to start To show me all the journeys taken there And how the wind moves through the world's great heart	6	The red tail dances high above the green As small feet scramble up the grassy steep A string pulls tight against a tiny hand While clouds drift slowly past the hill's soft peak Where does the wind go when it leaves my face? Does it travel down to touch the ocean deep? Or hide inside the hollow of a cave To wait until the morning sun should wake? If only this bright kite could fly away And wander through the sky beyond my sight Then I would follow where its path might lead Until it found the place the breezes hide Perhaps if someone finds it far away With notes tied to the frame or woven thread They'd tell me all the secrets that it learned And show the wind's true destination home	6	The grass rolls green beneath my running feet, And up the slope the red kite dances high, A paper bird that seeks the sun's warm heat, While I chase shadows underneath the sky. I pull the string until my fingers burn, And watch it tilt against the shifting air, But where does all this rushing wind turn? Is there a path I cannot find or share? If only you could break your tethered hold, And drift beyond the hill and out of sight, To travel where the breezes are untold, Then bring me back the secret of their flight. Perhaps upon your torn and tattered wing, You'd carry proof of winds I'll never see, The answer to the song the branches sing, And tell me just exactly where they flee.	6	The grass is green beneath my shoes, I run until my lungs are tight, While high above the cherry trees, My paper bird takes to the light. It tugs against the string I hold, A desperate pull, a gentle sway, And in that pull, a question grows: Just where does all this wind go today? Does it climb the misty peaks, Or slide beneath the ocean foam, Is it lost inside a cloud, Or rushing toward some distant home? If only now the line should snap, And let my kite take flight alone, To drift beyond the highest hill, And make its journey truly known. Perhaps if found by someone else, In valleys deep or skies so blue, They'd write upon its trailing tail, Exactly what the winds do.	6	The green slope rises beneath my sneakers tight, I pull the string until the fabric sings, A patchwork dragon dancing in the light, Above the rustling leaves and quiet wings. But where does this invisible river flow? Does it turn corners I can never make? Is there a place the gentle breezes go, To rest beneath the misty mountain's wake? Oh, let the thread unravel from my hand, Let soaring paper break its tether's tie, So write upon the wind across the land, Until the lost thing drifts into my eye. If found again beneath some distant tree, With whispers written deep within the tail, It would reveal what now is hidden free, And tell me just how far the gale can trail.	6	Across the green rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite…	7
394	train	Vermilion Flycatcher, San Pedro River, Arizona by Margaret Atwood	Margaret Atwood	"A poem about a once-raging river now reduced to a trickle, where a red bird evokes joy and the tranced rage of sex against a backdrop of history, murder, loss, and dreams."	The river’s been here, violent, right where we’re standing, you can tell by the trash caught overhead in the trees. Now it’s a trickle, and we’re up to our knees in late-spring yellowing weeds. A vermilion flycatcher darts down, flutters up, perches. Stick a pin in your thumb, the bead of blood would be his colour. He’s filled with joy and the tranced rage of sex. How he conjures, with his cry like a needle. A punctuation. A bone button on fire. Everything bad you can imagine is happening somewhere else, or happened here, a hundred years or centuries ago. He sings, and there’s the murder: you see it, forming under the shimmering air, a man with brown or white skin lying reversed in the vanished water, a spear or bullet in his back. At the ford, where the deer come at dusk to cross and drink and be ambushed. The red bird is sitting in the same tree, intensely bright in the sun that gleams on cruelty, on broken skullbone, arrow, spur. Vultures cluster, he doesn’t care. He and his other-coloured mate ignore everything but their own rapture. Who knows what they remember? Birds never dream, being their own. Dreams, I mean. As for you, the river that isn’t there is the same one you could drown in, face down.	The river that once roared with granite teeth Now whispers through the cracked and thirsty stone, A silver thread where ancient floods beneath Had drowned the kingdoms of the long-gone throne. Upon a branch above this dying stream, A red bird sings a note so sharp and bright, It cuts the silence like a sudden dream, And turns the gray despair to sudden light. That color holds the tranced rage of sex, A frantic pulse against the cooling air, Where bodies twist in desperate, sacred texts, And love becomes a violent, wild affair. But underneath the song and beating heart, The mud remembers what the water hid: The murder of the dreams we tried to start, The loss that makes the quiet river bid. History is written in the silt below, Of men who fell while chasing empty gold, Yet still the red bird's joy begins to grow, Against the stories that were never told. It flies above the trickle and the grave, Unmindful of the blood that soaked the land, A living flame that dares the dark to save The fragile hope held in a trembling hand.	The William – Edward – William – Edward – William – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – 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Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward – Edward …	1	The river that once roared like a mad god Has shrunk to a thin, nervous vein Of mud and memory Where the red bird jumps A sudden flash of joy Bright as a warning Against the grey stones That hold the tranced rage Not of water But of bodies pressed together Hard and desperate In the heat of a killing History bleeding through Murder in the roots Loss in the silt And dreams That dream themselves Over the edge Of a world That forgot how To roar Only This small Joy Singing On Nothing At all Only The Trick Of Water Trying To Be Whole Again While Sex Burns Like A Cinder In The Throat Of Time Unspoken Unsaid Just Red On Grey Joy On Grief Dream On Death All Moving Slow As A River Drying Up In Broad Day Light With No One Watching Except The Bird Who Knows How To Live When Everything Else Has Stopped Being Real And Started Being Memory Only Memory Only Joy Only Rage Only Love Only End Only Start Only Trickle Only Song Only Silence Only You Only Me Only We Only None Only Always Only Never Only Here Only There Only Then Only Now Only Ever Only Once Only Twice Only Thrice Only Enough Only More Only Less Only Most Only Least Only Best Only Worst Only Last Only First Only Middle Only Edge Only Center Only Round Only Square Only Flat Only High Only Low Only Up Only Down Only In Only Out Only Near Only Far Only Close Only Open Only Shut Only Lock Only Key Only Door Only Wall Only Roof Only Floor Only Ceiling Only Window Only View Only Blind Only See Only Hear Only Touch Only Taste Only Smell Only Feel Only Think Only Know Only Forget Only Remember Only Dream Only Wake Only Sleep Only Live Only Die Only Birth Only End Only Beginning Only Stopping Only Starting Only Going Only Coming Only Leaving Only Staying Only Waiting Only Hoping Only Praying Only Begging Only Screaming Only Whispering Only Calling Only Listening Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talking Only Talkin…	2	The river that once tore the stone in two now whispers through the mud, a silver thread of memory where giants used to drown and history bled out on every bed of silt and bone where murder took its toll and dreams were buried under heavy sky but here a flash of red, a sudden soul ignites the air before the dying eye a bird that sings of joy without a care while shadows stretch from battles long ago where lovers touched with tranced and violent rage their bodies shaking like the wind-blown snow that fell on fields of blood and broken vows they moved as one against the coming night forgetting all the ghosts and silent crowds lost in a heat that burned away the fright of all the things we killed to feel alive the river trickles on, a faint refrain of joy and sex and death that will not die beneath the weight of sorrow and of pain the red bird calls and shakes the dusty air as love and violence twist in one embrace and time dissolves in water thin and bare leaving only wonder on this ruined place	6	The river once roared with a throat of stone Now it is a silver thread, a gasp in the dust Where the banks remember the weight of the flood And the heavy, wet silence of things that have rusted. A red bird lands on a branch of dead wood With a cry that splits the gray air like a sudden joy Bright as a wound healing over the pain While the water forgets how to rush or destroy. History lies thick in the silt and the mud Where the murder took root and the dreams went to sleep The tranced rage of sex burns hot in the blood A feverish promise the living must keep Between the cold graves and the heat of the skin We are lost in the rhythm, we are found in the tear As the bird sings a song that the river cannot begin To drown out the ghosts who were never quite here. The trickle moves slow through the memory of war Carrying nothing but ash and the scent of the rain But the bird brings the fire back down to the floor And the lovers embrace in their beautiful chain Of desire and loss, of the past and the now Where the red flash of life cuts the dark of the mind Leaving the river a whisper, a shadow, a bow To the terrible beauty that leaves us behind.	3	The river once roared like a war drum breaking bones Now it is a silver thread stitched through the dry earth's palm A red bird lands on the dead reed and sings so bright It tears the silence with a joy that feels almost violent Like the tranced rage of bodies pressing skin to skin Where sweat becomes the only rain we know anymore We move in that fever while the stones remember The history written in mud and dried blood Murder bloomed here where the willows used to drink Loss sits heavy as a stone in the shallow bed But the bird does not care for ghosts or the dreams of the drowned It flares its crimson chest against the gray sky And for a moment the trickle seems to roar again As if love could wash away the weight of what was done	2	The river that once tore the canyon wide Now whispers through the dust, a silver thread Of memory where the granite bones divide And ancient floods are long since dead. A red bird strikes the silence with its wing A sudden spark of joy against the gray It sings a song the water cannot sing And turns the afternoon to gold and day. But in this light, the shadows stretch and twist To show the tranced rage of bodies pressed Where pleasure mimics war within the mist And lovers seek the peace they cannot rest. For history is written in the mud With blood that soaked the soil beneath the stream The murder of the past, the loss of good That haunts the edges of the waking dream. Yet here the bird still dances on the air Above the trickle and the buried pain Ignoring how the heavy ghosts repair The broken lines of love and endless rain.	6	The river once roared with a throat of stone and foam, Now it is a silver thread stitched into the dry dust, A ghost of water where the oxen used to drown. Above this parched bed, a red bird breaks the silence, A flash of crimson fire against the gray sky, Singing a song that makes the chest expand with sudden joy. Yet beneath the melody, the ground remembers the weight, Of empires built on bones and rivers choked with blood, Where history is not written but carved in deep scars. Here, lovers tangled in the reeds found a tranced rage, A violent union that mirrored the storm long gone, Sex as a desperate prayer against the encroaching dark. They moved like tides within a drought, seeking depth, While the world above whispered of lost cities and stolen dreams, Of mothers weeping for sons who never returned from war. The red bird watches, unbothered by the murder in the soil, Flashing its wings until the sorrow feels like flight, Until the trickle becomes an ocean in the mind again.	2	The river once roared with a voice of stone, carving canyons deep into the ancient bone, now barely whispers through the cracked and dry bed, a silver thread where mighty tides once spread. Amid this silence, a red bird takes flight, a flash of scarlet against the gray decay, its song igniting sparks within the light, reviving hope beneath the fading day. Yet beneath this fluttering, wild release, the memory hums with tranced and tangled flesh, the rhythmic thrumming that can give no peace, the sacred act amidst the ghostly mesh. For here they danced before the rewrite came, when empires rose upon the spilled reply, until the smoke obscured the sun's warm frame, and history wrote itself in make-believe. The ground remembers every drop of rain that mixed with blood beneath the willow's shade, the lost souls wandering without rest or chain, the promises made that quietly er fade. But now the trickle flows so soft and slow, reflecting skies where fractured dreams take root, while love burns bright against the quiet woe, turning the rust into something absolute.	6	The write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
404	train	Inversnaid by Gerard Manley Hopkins	Gerard Manley Hopkins	A poem about a powerful, dark-colored brook and its wild, foamy surroundings, culminating in a plea for the preservation of untamed natural places.	This darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home. A windpuff-bonnet of fáawn-fróth Turns and twindles over the broth Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning, It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning. Degged with dew, dappled with dew, Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through, Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern, And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn. What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.	The water runs a shade of deepest slate, A liquid shadow carving through the stone, Where sunlight fears to touch the heavy weight Of currents that have never known a throne. White foam erupts where jagged rocks collide, A chaotic crown of bubbles, wild and free, As shadows in the deep gorge seem to hide The ancient pulse of this dark mystery. No hand has tamed the rush or smoothed the bend, No bridge spans wide the churning, angry vein, Just mossy banks where silent ferns descend To drink the spray within the cooling rain. Oh let it roar untouched by human art, This darkened stream with foaming, frantic breath, Keep wild places beating in the heart, Before we silence them with quiet death.	Black as midnight oil it rushes downward rent by jagged teeth of tooth-edge stone that pulverize rich picardy of dark earth into white violent etcetera of killing etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etcet…	1	Black water rushes through the shaded stone A liquid ribbon of midnight and bone It carves a trench in earth both hard and steep Where ancient roots in trembling shadows creep White foam explodes on jagged edges sharp Like shattered teeth that guard a secret heart The spray hangs heavy in the cooling air A wild perfume of freedom everywhere No straight edge lines its violent, winding course Only the law of impulse and resource But cities grow with concrete feet and hands To tame these waters and all barren lands They seek to pipe the dark and kill the white And silence nature in the dead of night So hear this cry from banks about to fall Save every wild and uncontrolled ravine Let darkness run where man has not been near Keep all the roaring wilderness uninhibited and clear For if we lose the places none have owned We are but children shouting in an empty home Preserve the rush, the froth, the unknown way Before we drown ourselves in our own gray Leave some things wild for all who come after Before the last dark brook dissolves in laughter Save the wild Save the wild Save it all Before it falls before it falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls all falls …	5	The water runs a shade of midnight oil Beneath the canopy of ancient pine, Where shadows stretch and silent forces toil To drink the stars before they can decline. It crashes hard against the jagged stone With frothy teeth that gnash in white despair, A wild heart beating all its own Through tangled roots and mossy, dampened air. No bridge spans here to tame the rushing force, No path has worn a line through fern and thorn, Just chaos in its pure and primal course Since time began and long before it was born. But listen closely to the rising roar Before the concrete walls come crashing down, For if we lose this dark and secret shore, We kill the spirit of the living town. Let be the places where the foam runs high, Where nature breathes without a human hand, Beneath the vast and unobserved sky, Preserve the wildness of this sacred land.	6	The water runs a shade of midnight ink Beneath the canopy where shadows cling, A heavy current that refuses to think Of anything but how the stones it fling. White foam erupts in chaotic bursts Where jagged rocks defy the liquid weight, A wild and frothy dance of earth and thirst That seals the dark and turbulent fate. No garden path cuts through this tangled wood To tame the spray or guide the roaring flow, Here only ancient roots and silence stood Before the first human footstep came to know. Oh let these wild places keep their savage grace Unbroken by the hand that seeks to bind, For in the dark and foamy, rushing space We find the soul of nature, undefined.	6	A ribbon cut from midnight's heavy cloth, The brook flows deep and black beneath the pines, Where sunlight dares not touch the silent growth Of roots that twist in dark, ancient designs. It crashes down with teeth of frothy white, A chaotic foam against the jagged stone, Devouring light to fuel its endless flight, And claiming every wild, untamed zone. The spray hangs like a ghost around the bend, As mossy boulders wear the water's kiss, No gentle stream, but nature's fierce old friend, That knows no master save the storm and abyss. Oh, let this darkness run unchained and free, Before the concrete seals the river's throat, Preserve the chaos of the wild sea, And keep the savage beauty of the moat.	6	A ribbon of obsidian cuts through the stone, Deep and silent where the shadows are grown. It does not sing a gentle tune, but roars, With ancient secrets in its darkened stores. White foam explodes against the jagged gray, Where wild water claims the light of day. The spray is mist that chills the trembling air, A chaotic dance beyond human care. No path is paved here, no fence divides the stream, Just the raw power of an untamed dream. The moss clings tight to roots that twist and turn, As burning embers of the sunset burn. But silence waits behind the distant gate, To seal this place with concrete, steel, and fate. So let it flow, let chaos keep its throne, And leave this wild heart for the world unknown.	6	The brook cuts deep through shadowed stone, A vein of ink in earth's cold bone. It rushes on with silent might, Beneath the canopy of night. Around its banks the foam takes flight, A chaotic dance of white and light, Where wild roots tangle, thick and gnarled, And ancient, mossy ferns are marled. No path is made for human feet, To tame this dark and churning beat. The water roars, a primal sound, That shakes the quiet, sacred ground. So let it run, untamed and free, Beyond the reach of industry. Preserve the wild, the dark, the deep, Before the world is lulled to sleep.	6	Deep beneath the canopy where light retreats, A brook of obsidian flows with iron beats. Its waters carve a canyon through the stone, Reflecting skies that make the mist expand alone. White foam erupts upon the jagged reef, A chaotic dance that makes the silence cease. The current drags the ancient roots beneath, And whispers secrets to the turning wreath. No polish cools this wild and churning face, No gentle path can check its frantic pace. Let bridges break beneath this foaming tide, And let the shadowy depths expand inside. Oh keep this realm untouched by hand or plow, Where nature wears its crown without a bow. Preserve the dark, preserve the foam's release, Until this untamed song finds final rest	6	Deep within the rewrite make rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rew…	7
407	ultra_held_out	On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man by Sir John Betjeman	John Betjeman	"A poem about a speaker grappling with grief and the blunt reality of death, moving between somber reflection and macabre imagery while struggling to reconcile emotions."	The kind old face, the egg-shaped head, The tie, discretely loud, The loosely fitting shooting clothes, A closely fitting shroud. He liked old city dining rooms, Potatoes in their skin, But now his mouth is wide to let The London clay come in. He took me on long silent walks In country lanes when young. He knew the names of ev'ry bird But not the song it sung. And when he could not hear me speak He smiled and looked so wise That now I do not like to think Of maggots in his eyes. He liked the rain-washed Cornish air And smell of ploughed-up soil, He liked a landscape big and bare And painted it in oil. But least of all he liked that place Which hangs on Highgate Hill Of soaked Carrara-covered earth For Londoners to fill. He would have liked to say goodbye, Shake hands with many friends, In Highgate now his finger-bones Stick through his finger-ends. You, God, who treat him thus and thus, Say "Save his soul and pray." You ask me to believe You and I only see decay.	The silence in the hallway is not empty It is heavy with the weight of a body that used to breathe Now just a sack of water and bone cooling on the floor I stare at the stillness and wait for a ghost to rise But there is only the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light And the terrible, mechanical truth of it all Your hand was warm this morning, now it is wax A cold thing I can no longer squeeze without fear They say you are gone, but the word feels too soft For something so brutal as the heart stopping its work Like a clock smashed against the wall, gears grinding to dust No magic, no heaven waiting behind the door Just the smell of copper and the slow, wet rattle ending I try to pray for peace but my mind wanders to the worms To the dark soil pressing down on your ribcage How quickly the skin turns to gray and the eyes go cloudy Is this the love we built? Is this the final design? A rotting feast for things that do not know your name I scream at the ceiling but the room swallows the sound And I am left alone with the math of decay Grief is not a river, it is a grinder Shattering the pieces until nothing recognizable remains I want to hold you but I remember the rigor mortis The stiffness that locks the jaw and seals the mouth forever So I sit here and watch the sun move across the carpet While inside my chest, something hollow echoes back Not a spirit, but the sheer, blunt force of an absence That will never be filled by anything less than death itself	The TV news says killing killed but killing kills kills killing killing killing killing etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter…	1	The room smells of lilies and wet earth A funeral home courtesy Where the air hangs heavy Like a wet wool blanket Over a mouth that no longer opens to speak or scream or lie about how much it hurts to see you hollowed out and dressed in starch while your hands once warm enough to hold mine are now pale waxes hard as stone ready for the digging of a grave that tastes like pennies in my tongue I wonder if worms have already tasted the sweetness of your skin or if they are waiting patiently for the shovel to do their bidding It seems obscene to sit here drinking tea while your body begins its slow violent return to the dirt to the roots to the cold blind hunger of the ground How can I mourn when all I see is meat that has stopped working a machine that ran down too soon leaving only the shock of emptiness where laughter used to live and the terrible flat certainty that death is not a gateway but a wall of teeth that bites and swallows everything including me who must learn to walk on legs that feel like borrowed bones next to yours which are already being taken by the dark little creatures that never sleep never cry never care about our tears that fall only to wash away nothing at all except the stain of having loved something that had to end like this with no warning no mercy just the sharp click of silence locking behind us forever while the earth opens its maw to devour what was once whole and beautiful and mine before it became mine to lose to watch rot to know that love cannot stop the dig cannot stop the grave cannot stop the worm from eating your heart out while you were still thinking about dinner about next week about tomorrow that never came only now only here only dead and waiting to be covered by two feet of gray clay that offers no comfort only pressure only weight only the end of all things even memory even pain eventually crumbling back to dust to feed the grass that grows over the name that said it all too late too hard too much to bear without breaking into pieces that cut the hands trying to hold t…	2	The silence in the house is not empty it is heavy with the weight of a stopped heart and I stare at the cold skin that once held warmth wondering when the meat turned to something else a sack of wet earth waiting for the shovel I try to say your name but it tastes like ash like the dry rot of autumn leaves crushed underfoot while my mind plays tricks on the dark painting you as a skeleton dancing in the corner clattering ribs against the wallpaper mocking the way I still set two cups on the table How do I mourn the ghost while fearing the worm? how do I love the memory of your laugh when all I can see is the hollow where the jawbone fits the blunt machinery of death grinding down until there is nothing left but dust and bone and the terrible, indifferent quiet of the grave My tears fall hot on hands that are already stiff trying to hold back the inevitable decay but grief has no logic, only this sharp edge cutting between the person who was and the thing that will be leaving me stranded in the middle holding a photograph of a face that the dirt is already claiming as its own.	2	The silence in the house is not empty It is heavy with the weight of a body that no longer breathes I reach for your hand and find only cold skin A waxen map of veins that have stopped their river My mind tries to hold you as I knew you Laughing, warm, a living thing But my eyes keep seeing the stillness The way the dust settles on eyelids that will not open Death is not a gentle sleep or a soft cloud It is a blunt hammer striking bone It is the smell of lilies rotting in a vase While I sit here trying to say goodbye To a mouth that cannot speak To a chest that refuses to rise I scream at the dark but it swallows the sound And leaves me alone with the truth That you are gone Not to a place, but to nothing A hollow shell waiting for the earth to take back its clay And I am left holding the ghost of a hand Trembling between love and horror Between the memory of a heartbeat And the finality of the grave.	2	The silence is not empty but heavy A wet wool blanket soaked in rain and bone I try to speak your name but the air Is thick with the smell of formaldehyde and old roses Your smile was a bright thing once Now I imagine it stretched across a jaw That has forgotten how to hold a secret Or how to keep the teeth from rattling in the dark Why does my chest ache so violently When the body you left behind is already Reduced to a map of calcium and dust? I want to scream at the grave for being so polite For burying the horror under layers of dirt and prayer The maggots do not care about our eulogies They only know the warm softness of what remains And I hate them for their efficiency While I weep for the cold that will soon touch my own skin How can I love a memory that is rotting? How can I mourn a stranger wearing your face? The grief is a sharp knife in the gut But death is just a blunt hammer waiting to strike again I am torn between the heart that breaks and the mind that knows That everything ends in the quiet, hungry dark	2	The silence is not empty but heavy, a stone dropped in a well that never hits the bottom. I try to speak your name and it tastes like copper, like the taste of blood when you bite your tongue too hard. Yesterday I saw the maggot write its script on the apple, a white cursive of decay that knows no mercy. It makes me think of how the flesh softens into soil, how the warm breath becomes just air, indifferent and cold. I want to scream at the sun for rising so casually, for painting the sky in colors that do not care we are gone. But my throat is tight with the weight of unsaid things, a knot tied by hands that are now dust in a box. Is this love or is it just the fear of the void? To hold a memory while knowing the vessel is rotting. The skull grins beneath the skin if you look long enough, a silent joke played by biology on the heart. I cry until my eyes burn, then I stop, because tears cannot wash away the reality of bone. We are just meat waiting to be reabsorbed, and I am left here, holding the ghost of your hand, while the earth waits patiently below to take us both.	2	The silence is not empty but heavy with dust And the shape of a chair where you used to sit Is now just wood and fabric waiting to rot. I try to hold your memory like a warm stone in my palm But the stone is cold, slick with grave soil. Your eyes were blue, I tell myself, bright as summer skies. Now they are two holes in the dark, staring back at me. I weep for the softness of your skin. I shudder at the thought of what lies beneath it. The grief is a tide that pulls me under, Dragging me toward the deep, cold mud. I want to believe in a soul that floats away. Instead I see the maggot feast, the slow unraveling. Does it matter if I love you while you turn to bone? Does the earth care that my heart breaks into shards? I speak your name into the void. The void speaks back with the crunch of dry leaves. So I stand here, between the tear and the decay. Holding nothing but the weight of what remains.	2	The silence is a heavy stone beneath the ribs. I check my pockets for change, for keys, for proof I am still here. Yesterday you were flesh that breathed, now just meat waiting to rewrite itself. I remember the soft curve of your neck. Now I fixate on the mold blooming in the dark soil. Is this what love becomes? A calculation of decay rates. A clock unwinding until the gears rust into dust. My chest tightens with the need to make meaning. But the grave does not write poetry. It only expands. So I write verses to fill the hole where you used to stand. I write until the ink turns gray like smoke. Until I can smell the rot beneath the polish.	2	帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1
422	train	To BRYANT, the Poet of Nature by Walt Whitman	Walt Whitman	A poem about celebrating a poet of nature whose true monument is not built by human hands, but is instead living and breathing eternally in the vast mountains, flowing rivers, and blossoming flowers of the natural world.	Let Glory diadem the mighty dead— Let monuments of brass and marble rise To those who have upon our being shed A golden halo, borrowed from the skies, And given to time its most enduring prize; For they but little less than angels were: But not to thee, oh! nature's OWN, we should (When from this clod the minstrel-soul aspires And joins the glorious band of purer lyres) Tall columns build: thy monument is here— For ever fixed in its eternity— A monument God-built! 'Tis seen around— In mountains huge and many gliding streams— Where'er the torrent lifts a melancholy sound, Or modest flower in broad savannah gleams.	No stone was cut to mark his name, No marble column reaches high, For he who sang the wind and flame Found shelter in the open sky. His monument is not of brick, But granite peaks that pierce the gray, Where eagles circle, strong and quick, And clouds drift slowly on their way. The river sings his ancient verse, A flowing song through rock and sand, While winter's frost and summer's hearse Are woven by a gentle hand. In every bloom that opens wide, In roots that hold the earth so deep, His spirit lives where shadows hide, Awake while all the world asleeps. So let no statue rise above, To claim the poet of the wild, He dwells within the forest love, Forever breathing, calm and mild.	He asked not for a edifice of stone or pennants hanging low but his library opened all at once by spring – where roots drink memory from -- -- !-- – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	No stone was cut nor mortar laid To house the words he softly said His library is not a shelf But all of life he knew and fed The mountains stand as his high page Where snow and granite hold his age And rivers rush with liquid rhyme That wash away the bounds of time A flower opens on his grave Not dug by shovel, spade or slave But sprung from earth to meet the sky In every petal, he lives on No edifice of brick or bone Can rival roots that firmly grow Or clouds that drift in forms unknown His spirit breathes in winds that blow He never died, he simply grew Into the morning's golden dew A living poem, wild and free As old as sea and tall as tree So let none seek a tomb or shrine When spring returns and greens incline For everywhere the wild things start His heart still beats, his loving art Eternal in the mountain range Unchanged by man or passing strange The earth itself his monument Where all his silent songs are spent In every leaf and rushing stream He lives within our dreaming dream A poet who had no other home Than where the great wild forces roam His work remains, his voice stays clear In birdsong calling far and near Not built by hands but born of breath More lasting than all life or death The world remains his open book In whom the ancient truths look back A celebration without end On whom all living things depend The mountain holds him, flowers know Where all his secrets overflow His monument is everywhere In air we breathe and waters bare A poet of the wood and stone Who walks these hills all on his own And in the silence of the pine His truest self begins to shine No statue bears his likeness here Only the landscape, crystal clear Of stars and soil and sudden light That marks his passage through the night He is the hill, he is the glen He lives among his fellow men In nature's tongue he speaks aloud Beneath the shelter of the cloud His name is wind, his face is rain His joy in every bird and grain No dead white marble marks his bed Only the grass grows overhead Evergreen and ever new In all the world h…	7	He built no stone to mark his passing No marble arch to catch the light His name is not in carved inscription But woven through the morning bright Where ancient pines hold up the sky And moss climbs soft on granite steep His spirit walks the silent path While all the world is fast asleep The river sings his old refrain As it rushes down the rocky bed Each petal that the spring unfolds Is a verse he softly said There are no walls to hold his fame No pedestal of human art For every leaf that dances free Beats with his living heart The mountains stand as his true monument The clouds his shifting, fleeting page He lives within the wild and free Beyond the reach of age and cage So let the cities raise their towers To kings who sought to rule and reign We celebrate the poet here In wind and water, flower and grain	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place No marble arches rise to touch the sky For he who sang of wind and wild grass space Found in the earth a monument that never dies The mountains stand as pillars of his verse Their peaks forever holding up the blue Where silent snows in winter still rehearse The ancient rhythms that he knew so true The rivers flow with lines he once had traced In silver currents rushing toward the sea Each ripple bears a memory he placed A living poem for all time to see And when the spring returns to wake the land The blossoming flowers bloom from pages turned A garden where no human hand could plan The colors of the songs he always yearned So let the forest be his library Where birds recite his stanzas in the air His work is not a statue, cold and dry But life itself that breathes and lives everywhere	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place No marble column rises to the sky For he who sang of wind and shifting grass Found no need for walls that men might die His monument is vast and breathing still In peaks where ancient silence holds its breath The river sings the verses that he wrote And flows eternal past the edge of death Each blossom opens with a line of gold That blooms again when winter turns to spring The forest whispers what his heart once knew A living song on every leafy wing Let others build their tombs of dust and time To claim a name that fades within the gray He rests in clouds that drift across the sun And lives forever in the light of day	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place No marble column rises to the sky For he who sang of wind and shifting space Found in the wild a truth that will not die His epitaph is carved in mountain peaks Where ancient silence speaks to those who climb The river's song, the whisper that it seeks Is written in the rhythm of the time Each flower that unfolds its painted face Repeats the verse he whispered long ago The forest breathes within this sacred space And makes the living legacy grow Let others build with mortar, brick, and gold To keep their names from fading into dust But nature keeps the stories she has told In every leaf and star and seed of trust So look not for a statue made by hand But watch the dawn break over ridge and glen For here the poet walks across the land And lives forever in the world of men	7	No stone was cut to carve his name, No marble pillar rose in pride, For human hands could not contain The vast and wild within him wide. His monument is mountain peak, That pierces through the morning mist, Where silent winds their vigil keep, By ancient, craggy giants kissed. It flows within the river's song, A silver thread through valley deep, Carrying whispers, pure and long, While willow branches softly sweep. And every bloom that greets the sun, With petals soft and colors bright, Is where his verses still run, Igniting dawn with gentle light. So let the statues turn to dust, Let cities fade and towers fall, His true abode is trust, In nature's eternal call. He breathes within the forest green, In rustling leaves and falling rain, The greatest poet ever seen, Without a need for praise or chain.	7	No stone was cut to carve their name, No marble pillar rose so high, For they wrote verses in the rain, And left no echo for reply. The mountains keep their silent score, With misty caps of ancient gray, Where winds rewrite the open door, And make the wild pathways fade away. The rivers hum the tune they made, Across the pebbles, deep and clear, Reflecting light within the shade, So that the song is distinct yet dear. Each bud unfolds a stanza new, In crimson, gold, and velvet green, A bloom beneath the morning dew, Is proof that what is written, reigns. So let the statues turn to rust, Let human towers crumble down, This living legacy above trust, Is carved into this verdant crown.	7	Write polish rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewri…	1
429	ultra_held_out	Let Me Tell You by Miller Williams	Miller Williams	"A poem about observing the details of daily life, from stained wallpapers to a dying father's last words, and using metaphors to transform these commonplace experiences into great writing."	how to do it from the beginning. First notice everything: The stain on the wallpaper of the vacant house, the mothball smell of a Greyhound toilet. Miss nothing. Memorize it. You cannot twist the fact you do not know. Remember The blond girl you saw in the bar. Put a scar on her breast. Say she left home to get away from her father. Invent whatever will support your line. Leave out the rest. Use metaphors: the mayor is a pig is a metaphor which is not to suggest it is not a fact. Which is irrelevant. Nothing is less important than a fact. Be suspicious of any word you learned and were proud of learning. It will go bad. It will fall off the page. When your father lies in the last light and your mother cries for him, listen to the sound of her crying. When your father dies take notes somewhere inside. If there is a heaven he will forgive you if the line you found was a good line. It does not have to be worth the dying	The wallpaper peels in slow, yellowed scrolls Like ancient maps of lands that never were, Where coffee rings bloom into constellations And dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light. We learn to read the cracks within the plaster As lines of poetry written by time itself, Turning a chipped teacup's jagged rim Into a coastline where the silence breaks. But when the room grows quiet and the air turns thin, And his hand rests heavy on the quilt's cold weave, Those final words are not just sound or breath, But anchors dropped into a deepening sea. He speaks of rain he heard before he was born, Of a door left open in a house long sold, And we transcribe the tremor in his voice Not as a ending, but a stanza turning. For every stain is ink waiting for a story, Every fading breath a rhythm to be kept, Transforming the mundane and the broken things Into the great and terrible art of living.	Notice how the wallpaper curls like dead penn Edward killing edges where yellow news had bled from pic – ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― 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― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ― ―…	1	The wallpaper bears a tea-stain map of some forgotten country where the edges curl like burnt hair or old prayers that have nowhere else to go but up towards the ceiling where dust motes dance in shafts of indifferent light and we call it poverty when really it is just texture waiting for a poet to say it looks like a memory trying to hard to stay flat against the rush of years then comes the kitchen table where spoons clink like small bells ringing out hours that nobody notices except the man who counts them by the tremor in his hand he says he sees birds not the ones outside but the ones he killed or perhaps he says the window opens which sounds much worse than saying his breath is getting thin as a page about to be turned by an editor who knows that all great stories begin with stains on white sheets and end with silence that sounds exactly like truth being edited down to its very last note of static before the broadcast stops and we are left with only the radio still warm from having held such loud news of nothing at all but the ordinary brilliance of watching everything else go out while we try to learn how to say goodbye without using any of the right words at all just looking at the cracks in the paint and calling them rivers that will never reach the sea but have already traveled far enough to matter more than anything else we ever said or wrote or loved or lost before the curtain falls on this part of the play where everyone went home early except us who stay behind to pick up the confetti of every day that passed without notice now that we see it for what it was always meant to be a masterpiece of tiny things that never got big but were huge enough to kill us slowly or save us quickly depending on how you look at the wall where the water damage looks like a country map of some place that never had a name but has been named by your father who says birds again and for once we believe him because he knows that death is not an ending but a metaphor that gets better when you read it aloud to someone who cann…	2	The wallpaper peels in slow, yellow curls Like autumn leaves that forgot how to fall A map of damp and time on the bedroom wall Where the stain of tea has bled into a storm That once was just a spill from an early morn We learn to read the cracks as lines of verse To hear the rhythm in the settling house The dust motes dancing in a shaft of light Are stars trapped in a room without a sky And when his voice grows thin as paper lace He speaks of things we thought were far away His last words are not grand or full of sound But simple as a bird that knows the end They hang between us like a heavy bell That rings without a clapper or a hand We take these shards of ordinary pain The chipped mug, the creaking floorboard's groan The way the kettle screams its white hot note And hammer them with metaphors of gold Until the mundane shines with sudden fire Transforming grief to something we can hold Not just a day that ended in the dark But all the world contained within a spark The dying breath becomes a final line That seals the poem of our shared decline And in the silence after he is gone We see the beauty of the broken dawn Where every stain and whisper finds its place In stories written on a human face No longer just a room where life decays But art that lives beyond the coming days We write the world by watching it unfold Turning the common to the bright and old From peeling paint to whispers in the ear We find the universe in all things here And let the details rise to meet the sun Before the story of our days is done.	6	The wallpaper peels in slow, dry flakes Like ancient maps of lands that never were, A yellowed stain where tea once overflowed Becomes a sun-drenched sea for paper ships. We watch the dust motes dance in afternoon light And see not dirt, but stars in miniature skies, Where gravity is soft and time moves slow. Then comes the room where silence holds its breath, The ticking clock a hammer on the heart, As father's voice grows thin as morning mist And words he speaks are fragile as glass beads. He says the door is open just a crack, But I hear him say the ocean calls his name, That every cough is wind against a sail. To write is not to list what we have seen, But turn the rust upon a kitchen gate Into a crown of iron worn by kings, To take the dying gasp and make it song. The common clay of hours spent in waiting Is fired in memory until it shines, And even death becomes a metaphor For how the light returns when shadows fall.	3	The wallpaper peels in slow, dry breaths revealing the plaster skin beneath, a map of forgotten rooms where dust motes dance like tiny stars trapped in a jar of silence. I watch the stain spread like spilled wine on linen, a dark bloom that refuses to fade, and realize this is not just decay but ink waiting for the pen to find its rhythm. Outside, the rain taps a code against the glass, not merely water falling but a language spoken by clouds heavy with unshed stories. The kettle whistles a high, thin note of urgency, transforming boiling water into a cry of the soul, while the toast burns to a charcoal crisp, becoming a monument to the moment we missed. Then comes the quiet room, the hush before the end, where my father's voice is a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges until it snaps. His last words are not grand declarations or final wisdoms, but a simple request for water, soft as a feather, yet they carry the weight of oceans and centuries. In that fragile syllable, I see the whole world collapse into a single point of light, turning grief into gold, turning the mundane ache of loss into the first line of something eternal.	3	The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin, revealing the gray plaster bone beneath, a map of forgotten rooms where dust motes dance like tiny stars in a sunbeam's narrow beam. I watch the coffee stain spread on the table cloth, a brown galaxy expanding in slow motion, turning a morning spill into an ancient ocean, where lost ships drift on rings of sugar and cream. Then the hallway narrows to a single breath, and the voice that once thundered now whispers through cracked lips, each word a fragile bird landing on a branch too thin to hold it, carrying the weight of a lifetime in a syllable or two. He speaks of rain he hasn't felt in years, and I write it down as if translating a storm, making the mundane ache into something eternal, so that what was just a room becomes a cathedral, and what was just a goodbye becomes a song.	3	The stain on the wallpaper blooms like a forgotten map, A rust-colored archipelago where time has lost its ships. We trace the cracks with eyes that seek the pattern in the rot, Turning peeling paint into a story of what we forgot. The coffee cup holds rings of tar that mark the morning's slow decay, But write them as the sun's own halo fading into gray. The hum of fridge becomes the drone of distant, sleeping bees, Transforming static noise to music for the weary keys. And when the room grows quiet and the light begins to thin, The father's breath, a ragged sail caught in the wind within. His final words are not just sounds that fade against the air, But heavy stones dropped gently in a deep and silent lair. Do not write only what you see, the dust, the ache, the end, But weave the thread of metaphor until the broken mend. Make common things feel vast again, make small details take flight, Until the dying whisper burns like stars across the night.	3	The stain upon the wallpaper expands like a forgotten tide, a rust-colored continent where mold makes its quiet claim, and I write this pattern into ink until it feels like prophecy. Steam fogs the mirror into a ghost's reply, turning condensation into misty veils across the eyes of strangers, until the reflection is no longer glass but deep water. Across the hall, the clock ticks with the weight of lead, each second a drop filling the vessel of the waiting room. Then, the final draft written in breath so faint, my father's voice unraveling into static and soft light. "Make them sing," he whispers, though I think I make them fade. But wait, rewrite that sentence now. Let the stain become a map of storms we weathered alone. Let the fog rewrite itself as clouds reshaping above a calm field. And let those last words be not fading static, but gold dust scattered into wind to write a story without end.	2	rewrite the mold beneath expanding write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand expand expand write expand e…	2
432	ultra_held_out	The Plains by Banjo Paterson	Banjo Paterson	"A poem about the plains transforming through the seasons, oscillating between abundance and barrenness, beauty and cruelty, as nature's unpredictable cycles bring lush grazing lands to ruin, leaving only the bones of once-thriving animals scattered across the same grounds that had sustained them."	A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go Like shifting symbols of hope deferred - land where you never know. Land of the plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance, Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance, Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance. And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by, Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry - Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.	Green waves roll across the earth in spring, Where bison graze and wildflowers sing, The soil drinks deep of summer rain, And life erupts in a lush domain. But autumn winds begin to bite, As days grow short and cold takes flight, The grass turns gold then brittle brown, Before the first hard frost comes down. Then winter strikes with teeth of ice, No mercy for the weak or nice, The sky turns gray, the ground turns white, A frozen tomb beneath the night. The drought returns with scorching heat, To crack the mud beneath our feet, The rivers shrink to dusty threads, While hunger chases all the herds. Now silence falls on fields once full, Where nature played its cruel pull, The abundance fades to barren dust, Betrayed by cycles we cannot trust. Only the bones remain to show, How green and gray can ebb and flow, White ribs against the scorched terrain, Of lives that bloomed and died again.	Spring returns and blows rich blond hair over hills that seem to hold more else where otherwise then went away etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etcetera etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter 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etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter etceter …	1	Spring arrives with a sudden rush of green Where thirsty roots drink deep from hidden springs The earth exhales a breath of tender life As herds return to graze on living things But summer comes and locks the air in heat The grass turns yellow, brittle as old hair The clouds withhold their pitying silver tears Leaving the wind to strip the landscape bare Autumn brings a killing frost that snaps The stalks that grew so tall and strong before Then winter falls like hammer blows of white To seal the barren fields in frozen law Year after year the cycle swings back home From plenty rich enough to feed a million To hunger sharp enough to kill the weak A cruel beauty hiding all selection Now only ribs and skulls lie in the dust White bones picked clean by crows and scavenging dogs On soil that once held milk and fat and blood Returned to ash where nothing else grows The plains remember both the fullness past And ruin waiting for the next poor spring An endless oscillation of the wheel Between the grave and gardens nature brings No sympathy exists within the ground Only the rhythm of the starving years That fed them well then killed them all away In silence broken only by dead cheers Of ghosts who wonder how the land survives After it took the very lives it gave Returning all to earth and bone and dust Where only emptiness remains to pave The road back towards another false spring Another lie about abundance coming Before the cruelty returns again To sweep the dying from the barren dreaming Leaving the bones to mark the tragic space Where life was whole and beautiful and brief Destroyed by seasons working without care To offer life then snatching all belief Back to the dust back to the silent cold Back to the story always starting new Beginning rich and ending stripped and pale With only skeletons to testify About the beauty and the killing blow About the plenty and the lack thereof About the way the earth demands its due In every season's violent loving love That kills as much as it has ever grown Leaving the plains to…	7	Green waves roll out where the tall grasses sway Under a sky of soft and endless blue The herds move slow in a heavy, golden day And drink from creeks that run both deep and true But then the wind turns sharp and steals the rain The earth cracks wide like an open mouth The rivers shrink to dust and bitter pain As silence spreads across the barren south The lushness fades to ash and brittle straw Where once the cattle grazed in rich delight Now only bleached and hollow bones we saw Scattered white against the dying light The same ground fed them when the world was sweet Now holds their ribs as trophies of the cold A cruel and beautiful, repeating beat That leaves the living story half-unfold From bursting life to ruin in a breath The plains remember nothing but the cost Of abundance followed by a sudden death Where every gain is inevitably lost	6	The spring arrives with sudden, heavy rain That turns the dust to mud and green again Where bison roam on grasses tall and sweet And life is rich beneath the summer heat But then the sky forgets the gift of water The wind begins a dry and howling slaughter The lushness fades to gold, then brittle brown As silence falls upon the starving town The rivers shrink to threads of cracked earth clay And beauty dies in this relentless fray Now only ribs stand stark against the pale A white and hollow monument to fail The ground that fed them now holds nothing but The scattered bones where once they sought their cut A cycle spins from plenty into ruin With no one left to mourn or to resume Just endless space where hunger has its way Between the bloom of life and death's decay	7	The green tide rises, swallowing the dust Where bison roam beneath a sky of gold The grass is thick with life and heavy rust And every wind tells stories to be told But then the heat descends like iron bars To crack the earth and steal the river's breath The stars turn cold above the empty cars As drought arrives to mock the hope of death The lushness fades to ash within a week The vibrant fields become a barren plain No water left for any tongue to seek Only the silence of the falling rain Now scattered white against the scorched red soil The ribs and skulls of those who fed so well A cruel reminder of the sudden toil That turns the feast into a silent hell The ground that held them in its tender grip Now holds their bones as trophies of the year Where abundance lived, the dry winds now whip Through cycles vast and brutally severe	6	Green waves roll across the endless floor, A heavy rain unlocks the dormant door. The grass grows thick with emerald grace, And herds move slow through sunlit space. Fat bellies swell on clover sweet, Where life and land in rhythm meet. But clouds turn gray and winds turn cold, The story of the harvest told. The sky holds back its silver tears, As drought arrives to dry the years. The green retreats to brittle gold, A landscape stripped and stark and old. The rivers shrink to muddy threads, While silence fills the empty beds. No rustle breaks the scorching air, Just heat that hangs like iron there. The abundance fades to dust and bone, A kingdom lost, a seed unshown. Now scattered white against the brown, Lie ribs that once knew how to run. The same ground fed the grazing throng, Now sings a silent, hollow song. From lush to bare, from life to death, The plains exhale their final breath.	7	Green waves roll deep across the endless floor, Where bison graze beneath a sun so warm, The soil drinks rain and gives up life in store, A lush embrace that shields from winter's storm. But skies turn gray and winds begin to scream, The vibrant grass turns brittle, gold, and dry, The riverbeds dissolve into a dream, And silence breaks the rhythm of the sky. Now drought is king and holds the land in chains, No succulent shoot dares break the cracked earth's skin, The herds retreat through parched and dusty plains, Where thirst makes every step a battle within. And when the cold finally claims its final due, The strong give way to frost and fading breath, The vibrant pulse turns quiet, still, and blue, Leaving only skeletons amidst the death. White bones lie scattered where the green once grew, A stark reminder of the feast now gone, The ground that fed them stands entirely new, Yet stripped of life until the dawn of dawn.	7	Green waves roll deep beneath the sun's warm gaze, Where bison write their trails across the misty haze. The grass is thick with promise, sweet and gold, a feast untold, And life expands within this vast embrace so bold. But turn the tide to winter's bite, the sky turns leaden gray, The vibrant hues retreat beneath the cold encroaching day. A silence falls upon the plain, the wind begins to sing, Of storms that strip the soil away and make the rivers sting. Then drought descends like iron chains, turning green to rust, The润润 yield becomes a ghost, replaced by choking dust. No rain to break the crust above, no cloud to bring release, Just scorching heat that strips the land until it finds its peace. Now scattered white across the ground, where hooves once trod so free, Lie fractured ribs of ancient kings beneath the withered tree. The same soft dirt that fed them deep now cradles what remains, A cycle writ in bone and sun across the parched terrain.	6	Green mist unfolds beneath the rewrite sun, …	1
434	train	Cross by Langston Hughes	Langston Hughes	A poem about a biracial speaker wondering whether he will die in a nice home or a dilapidated one, reflecting on the unequal lives and deaths of his white father and Black mother in a racist society.	My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back. If ever I cursed my black old mother And wished she were in hell, I’m sorry for that evil wish And now I wish her well. My old man died in a fine big house. My ma died in a shack. I wonder where I’m gonna die, Being neither white nor black?	I trace the line where blue veins meet dark skin and wonder which roof will shelter my bones when I am done. Will it be the one with the manicured lawn and the quiet street where my father's name still opens doors that stay locked for me? Or will it be the crumbling porch, the peeling paint, the sirens' wail where my mother's laughter was often swallowed by the night? He died in a house built on a foundation of silence, a place where the air smelled of lemon polish and old money, where the world bowed down to his pale reflection. She died in a world that measured her worth by the weight of her shadow, in a home where the walls seemed to lean in, heavy with history. Now I stand between two futures, a hybrid ghost in the making, wondering if the color of my blood will dictate the quality of my end. Will the doctors nod politely at my white half and ignore my black? Will the funeral director ask about my lineage before preparing the box? The society that raised me draws lines in the dirt and calls them fate, deciding who gets a soft bed and who gets a hard grave. I look at the sky, gray and indifferent over both neighborhoods, and ask the wind if it knows how to tell a story without a bias. Perhaps the truth is that death does not care for the address, only that the house, whether grand or broken, must eventually hold the same cold silence for us all.	He drove his Edward Anglo–Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward Edward – Edward…	1	My blood holds two maps drawn by different hands one marked with manicured lawns and locked gates the other signed in red lines that block the way to anywhere but nowhere I wonder which roof will shelter my bones when the breath leaves these borrowed lungs will it be a home where the wood smells of varnish and the windows never rattle or a house where the pipes scream and the neighbors know your name only as a warning Father died behind a white door his history washed clean by money while Mother passed thinking of barred windows of a life spent looking over her shoulder at the same sky that watched him live in a world that offered him his size but offered her only her skin Now I stand at the intersection of their differing deaths half his confidence half her survival wondering if death comes as a guest who brings flowers or as an eviction notice signed by a hand that never learned to hold mine without shaking thinking of how the grave might look different depending on who buries you and whose news reports it kills your memory first before the earth even touches down to cover all of us equally which we know it never quite does not while we are still drawing these maps by hand trying to see where they end or begin if there is a border crossed by death that looks like home or only another road that leads back to where we started looking up at the ceiling of our lives asking who gets to close their eyes with peace and who must keep watch for kickers coming through the door long after the heart has stopped its beating in the dark between two worlds that never quite meet except in me who carries both the key and the lock wondering which one opens last when the night comes calling out my name from both directions at once asking who am i going to be when i cannot be either or both but only gone and whose history gets to call that gone beautiful versus tragic versus just statistics versus news versus nothing at all depending on which side of the street the hearse passes by on its way to bury me under trees that were alwa…	2	My father died in a house with white walls where the radiator hissed a steady, warm breath and the curtains were heavy enough to block out the sound of sirens or shouting while my mother passed in a room where the paint peeled like sunburned skin and the window rattled in the wind because the landlord never answered the phone. I am the child of both these rooms carrying the blood that bought the deed and the blood that rented the floor wondering which ceiling will be mine when the time comes to stop breathing. Will I lie on sheets washed by hands that know the price of soap and silence or on a mattress stained by years of worry where the heat goes off when the bill is late? The world drew a line through my chest before I was born and asked me to choose a side but death does not care about the color of the wood only the quality of the roof and I wonder if God looks at my face and sees a warning or an invitation to the nice home or the one falling down while the neighbors watch and say nothing about who gets to die comfortably and who gets to disappear into the cracks of a city built on lies that say we are all equal except when the rent is due or the ambulance arrives too late for the poor but just in time for the rich and I am stuck between two kinds of endings trying to figure out which one fits my mixed-up bones before the door closes on either way leaving me wondering if the difference matters when the light goes out or if it only matters who pays for the flowers afterwards.	2	I am the sum of two different ends where one was buried in a manicured lawn and the other in a plot where weeds choke the stone my father's house had a porch that never creaked his death came soft like snow on slate while my mother's walls held the damp of neglect her breath stopped in a room the city forgot now I walk the line between these two fates wondering if my roof will hold or leak if the mortgage man will smile at my skin or if the foreclosure notice will arrive too soon does the blood of the privileged buy me time or does the shadow of the oppressed pull me down to a floorboard that splinters underfoot in a world that counts our lives by color before we even take our final step will I close my eyes to a ceiling painted white or watch the plaster fall in gray dust as the sirens wail outside the broken window of a home that never felt like mine.	2	My father left a house with marble floors where silence was a luxury he bought, a quiet death behind a locked front door in neighborhoods where nothing ever fought. My mother died in rooms that leaked and cracked, her breath a struggle against mold and rust, a life of walking on the jagged track of concrete poured with iron and distrust. Now I stand here with skin that holds them both, the light of him, the shadow she survived, and wonder which end waits to be my oath, which final bed will hold me when I die. Will I wake up in sheets of crisp white linen? Or rot within a ceiling stained with rain? Does blood decide the shape of how we begin, or does the world just break us for its gain? The map is drawn by hands that never knew the weight of her or the softness of his name, splitting the path where two distinct worlds grew into a single, fractured, burning flame. I cannot choose the roof above my head, nor know if angels come or rats instead, only that one died safe, the other bled, and I am caught between the living and the dead.	3	My father's bones rest in a plot of manicured green Where the grass is cut to a uniform length and the silence is bought with money, While my mother's memory drifts through cracked sidewalks and rusted gates, A ghost in a house where the paint peels like sunburnt skin. I stand at the threshold of both worlds, a mix of blood that confuses the census, Wondering which door will close over me when the breath runs thin. Will I inherit the quiet dignity of a white man's final room, With its polished floors and the soft hum of a central air system? Or will I return to the drafty corners my mother knew so well, Where the windows rattle against the wind and the roof leaks rain? They say death is the great equalizer, but I have seen the receipts, The way a name can open a casket lined with velvet or leave it bare, How a society builds walls around some lives and lets others crumble. My father died as he lived, protected by the color of his skin, Surrounded by people who looked like him, speaking words that meant safety. My mother died as she lived, watched over by strangers who feared her shadow, Her final days spent waiting for help that never quite arrived on time. Now I hold the question in my hands like a broken heirloom, Is my end written in the deed of a mansion or the eviction notice? Do I get to choose the quality of my fading, or is it already decided By the split in my DNA and the history written on my face? Perhaps I will die in a nice home, a compromise the world makes for my mixed blood, Or perhaps I will die in the one they forgot to fix, just like her. The truth is I am walking between two graves, neither fully mine, Trying to find a place where the dirt feels the same beneath my feet, Where the price of a coffin does not depend on who my parents were.	2	My father left behind a house with polished floors Where the light fell soft on marble mantels, clean and cold. My mother's final breath was drawn in rooms that leaked, Where mold bloomed dark against the peeling paint of struggle. I stand between the timber frames of two distinct fates, A mixed blood line that cannot choose its ending place. Will I wake in the silence of a mortgage paid in full, Or will my last sight be the cracked foundation of the street? The world has taught me that the color of my skin Decides whether my coffin is oak or cheap pine. My white ghost sleeps in gardens where the grass is cut, While my black ghost wanders streets where sirens sing too loud. I am the question written on the threshold of the door, Wondering if the roof above me will hold against the rain, Or if it will collapse just as the system predicted, Leaving me to die exactly where I was told I'd start.	2	I check the polish on my father's brass handle, warm with the polish of generations stacked above. Then I touch the rust beneath my mother's knuckles, where rain leaked through the corrugated roof until it rotted. They write me into separate chapters, distinct and final. One is written in clean ink on cream paper, ending in a quiet room. The other is scribbled in soot on fading parchment, ending where the streetlights break. My face is split right down the center, a mirror fractured. Does this make me drafty? Does this make me draft-proof? Will I breathe my last beneath velvet drapes that keep out the draft, or will the mold wrap around my ankles before the sun can rise? I carry the silence of the mortgage rewrite, the title deed. I carry the echo of the eviction notice, the writ. Maybe the answer isn't in the foundation beneath my feet. Maybe the answer is whether the world lets me build something true.	2	Is rewrite	7
435	ultra_held_out	Song for the Rainy Season by Elizabeth Bishop	Elizabeth Bishop	"A poem about a home thriving with life and water during the rainy season, contrasting with the dry heat of summer."	Hidden, oh hidden in the high fog the house we live in, beneath the magnetic rock, rain-, rainbow-ridden, where blood-black bromelias, lichens, owls, and the lint of the waterfalls cling, familiar, unbidden. In a dim age of water the brook sings loud from a rib cage of giant fern; vapor climbs up the thick growth effortlessly, turns back, holding them both, house and rock, in a private cloud. At night, on the roof, blind drops crawl and the ordinary brown owl gives us proof he can count: five times—always five— he stamps and takes off after the fat frogs that, shrilling for love, clamber and mount. House, open house to the white dew and the milk-white sunrise kind to the eyes, to membership of silver fish, mouse, bookworms, big moths; with a wall for the mildew's ignorant map; darkened and tarnished by the warm touch of the warm breath, maculate, cherished; rejoice! For a later era will differ. (O difference that kills or intimidates, much of all our small shadowy life!) Without water the great rock will stare unmagnetized, bare, no longer wearing rainbows or rain, the forgiving air and the high fog gone; the owls will move on and the several waterfalls shrivel in the steady sun.	The summer sun had scorched the earth to dust, A brittle silence where the crickets ceased their song, The riverbed a cracked and thirsty mouth, Where shadows stretched too long and heat was strong. But now the clouds have gathered thick and gray, And drums of rain begin to tap the roof, The air grows cool with scent of wetted clay, As life awakes from its dry, dusty proof. Green shoots erupt through soil once turned to stone, The garden drinks until the leaves are bright, A world reborn in water's gentle tone, Chasing away the ghost of burning light. Inside the walls, the windows catch the gleam, Of droplets racing down the glass like tears, We watch the garden drink its fill of dream, And feel the pulse of life return after years.	The summer baked the earth to pale and cracking dust Where hair grew poor of all returned by breath then burned away by killing yellow heat that killed all things went to edge of mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich 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mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad rich mad ri…	1	The summer baked the earth to cracked and dusty clay Where thirst drew lines like wrinkles on a barren face The birds grew silent in the heavy, golden glare And every flower bowed its head in hot disgrace But then the clouds rolled in with rumbling, dark intent To wash away the heat that held the world in grip First came the scent of wet and rich and living dust As life returned to drink from out the slippery drip Now water rushes down the gutters in a rush A symphony of tapping on the roof and pane The garden drinks it deep and bursts in sudden green While frogs announce their joy in sympathetic strain No longer gasping for a breath of cooling air The home breathes easy in this liquid, swelling night It swims in sounds of pouring life and happy growth Far different from the burning, silent day of light The summer was a prison of relentless heat But rain has opened up the locks and set us free To live again among the roots and running streams In all the wild and wonderful variety Of home alive and drinking from the falling sky While summer sleeps defeated by the coming spring We watch the puddles dance and hear the cisterns fill And know how much we loved the things the waters bring No more the thirst nor dust nor silence of the dry Only the sound of life returning once again Thick with the smell of earth and washed and sparkling leaves Under the soft and rhythmic beating of the rain This house is full of motion and of liquid grace A sanctuary built of water and of song Where all the creatures gathered from the hidden dark Have nowhere else to go but where they all belong Out of the burning days and back into the cool We celebrate the flood that feeds our very soul And watch the river grow beside our front porch steps Whole worlds returning to a broken household whole The summer passed like fever dreams of hollow bone But here we stand refreshed by all the falling years With laughter ringing out above the rushing water Driving away the memory of all those tears That summer brought before the clouds began to weep …	7	The summer baked the earth in silence Where dust danced thick and heavy air No bird dared sing above the barren Only heat waves shook the ground Thirsty roots reached deep in vain Beneath a sky of burning blue Then came the clouds, a sudden grey That broke the spell of scorching light The first fat drop hit cracked clay And life erupted in the night Now water rushes through the eaves A symphony on tin and stone The garden drinks its fill with leaves In every corner seeds have grown Frogs chorus loud from puddles full While frogs and fish in ditches play The dry and dead are suddenly dull Compared to wet and wild today Inside the home, the windows steam With warmth that holds no sharp despair For summer's ghost has lost its dream To rain that fills the living air	6	The summer held its breath in dust and gold Where cracked earth waited for a single drop The air was thick with heat that never cooled And silence fell as if the world would stop But then the clouds arrived like heavy ships To break the spell of drought and burning light Now water dances on the garden tips And turns the gray to vibrant, living green The roof drums out a rhythm, loud and deep While puddles gather in the worn-out yard No longer do we count the hours spent asleep Beneath the sun that made the grass look hard Inside the kitchen steam begins to rise As tea is poured against the cooling glass We watch the storm wash clean our weary eyes And feel the life that only rains can pass The frogs return to sing their evening song The river swells with power from the sky This house is full where once it felt too long To wait for all the dry and thirsty days to die	7	The summer sun had baked the earth to dust, Where cracked clay split beneath a heavy sky, And silence held the house in chains of heat, While thirsty roots went deep to search and die. But now the clouds arrive with rumbling drums, To break the spell of fire and arid air, As rain pours down to fill the cisterns full, And green returns to where the grass was bare. Inside, the floor is cool against the feet, While droplets dance along the window pane, A thousand frogs begin their nightly song, To celebrate the end of drought and pain. The garden swells with life and sudden bloom, No longer gray but vibrant, wet, and new, The water sings a melody of growth, That washes clean the memory of blue. Now steam rises from pots upon the stove, As family gathers round the hearth's warm light, Safe from the storm that thrashes at the door, Within this home alive and filled with night.	7	The summer sun had scorched the earth to dust And turned the riverbed to cracked and gray, Where silence held its breath in heavy trust Beneath a sky that burned the heat of day. But now the clouds roll in with thunder's drum To wake the sleeping seeds within the soil, As raindrops beat a rhythm on the home And wash away the memory of toil. The gutters sing a song they cannot keep While green shoots rise from patches brown and dry, The air is cool beneath the willow deep Where dragonflies dance underneath the sky. Inside, the walls breathe moisture through the stone, A humid warmth that holds the family near, No longer parched or waiting all alone For water to make every hope appear. The garden bursts with life in shades so bright, Contrasting starkly with the ash before, A thriving world restored by falling light That opens up the locked and dusty door.	7	The summer sun once scorched the clay, Turning dust to cracks of gray, Where silence stretched across the floor, And water pooled beneath no door. Now clouds arrive in heavy sheets, To wash away the parched retreats, As thunder rolls a deep bass drum, Calling every living thing to come. The roof drums loud with silver rain, Relieving fields of ancient pain, Green shoots erupt from soil so deep, Awaking seeds from winter sleep. Inside, the air is cool and thick, With mist that clings like morning silk, A frog finds home within the basin, While lilies bloom without a season. No longer dry or still or hot, The house is filled with life it sought, For water brings what heat could not, And turns the quiet into song.	7	The sun once scorched the clay until it cracked like ancient pottery, And dust hung heavy in the air where silence reigned so deep. No ripple danced across the pool beneath the withered willow tree, Just mirrors made of parched and gray within a sleep. But now the sky has turned to lead and breaks with thunder's drum, As silver threads rewrite the script upon the thirsty ground. The drought retreats beneath the weight of rain that makes us numb, Until the dry heat fades into the misty, rising sound. Now green erupts from cracks so deep, reclaiming every stone, While vines expand their emerald arms across the wooden beam. The rooftop sings a rhythm soft beneath the monsoon drone, Reflecting life within the flow beneath this stormy dream. Inside, the floorboards swell with change, the humid air is sweet, With mist condensing on the glass to write the season's name. No longer just a vessel built against the scorching heat, This house thrives in the water's wake, reviving flesh and frame.	6	请将这段扩写润写的续写改为改写 rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	7
440	ultra_held_out	Shall earth no more inspire thee by Emily Brontë	Emily Brontë	"A poem about the Earth pleading with a lost soul to return to worshipping and dwelling within its warmth."	Shall earth no more inspire thee, Thou lonely dreamer now? Since passion may not fire thee Shall Nature cease to bow? Thy mind is ever moving In regions dark to thee; Recall its useless roving— Come back and dwell with me. I know my mountain breezes Enchant and soothe thee still— I know my sunshine pleases Despite thy wayward will. When day with evening blending Sinks from the summer sky, I’ve seen thy spirit bending In fond idolatry. I’ve watched thee every hour; I know my mighty sway, I know my magic power To drive thy griefs away. Few hearts to mortals given On earth so wildly pine; Yet none would ask a heaven More like this earth than thine. Then let my winds caress thee; Thy comrade let me be— Since nought beside can bless thee, Return and dwell with me.	My child, why do you wander in the cold Where shadows stretch and silence holds its breath? The sun still waits to wrap you in its gold And save your spirit from this quiet death. Return to where the rivers sing their tune Beneath the canopy of ancient green Come feel the pulse that beats beneath the moon And taste the life within the soil unseen. I am the cradle that once held you tight Before you drifted far into the night Your heart was made for warmth and not for fright So let my arms embrace you with delight. Do not fear the fire that warms the bone It is the love I saved just for your own Come home to me where seeds are freely sown And dwell again within my gentle throne.	Child who has wandered far from killing return to the trembling breast of home where roots drink low and children grow bespite all other gods besides come back to where your hair grew rich from drinking earth not killing returned to loving all that lives else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else els…	1	Little wanderer who has forgotten the taste of soil Why do you drift in such a cold and silent sea Come back to the marrow of my living heart Where the roots drink deep and the rivers run free I offered you shelter from the biting frost A home where the laughter of children grows But you turned your back on the golden host And sought only shadows and hollow woes Return to the warmth that once held you whole To the breath of the wind and the song of the bird Stop searching for gods in a frozen soul When all you ever needed was earth as your word Lay down your armor and open your hands Feel the pulse of the mountain, the hug of the tree There are no locks here that I cannot command Only an endless and tender liberty Come home to the fire that burns in the clay Before the stars grow dim and the night overtakes Worship the light of the returning day For every broken heart is one that awakes Step out of the dark and step in the green Dwell in the love that has always been yours The greatest wonder that ever has been Is not far away but opens these doors Return little child to the breast of the land Where life springs up from the dust and the stone Take back the spirit from your trembling hand And dwell in the glory of being unknown Return to the earth Return to the earth Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Return home Retur…	7	Child of the dust who walks in shadowed air Why do you flee the roots that hold you there? The soil remembers how your feet once pressed The gentle warmth that cradled every breast I offer springs that sing and fields of gold A story older than the stars, yet told In every breath you draw from morning dew My heart beats strong to call a spirit new Do not let silence be your only home When I have built a palace out of loam Return to where the rivers run so deep And let the ancient lullabies you keep Be sung again by winds that know your name No longer wander through the freezing flame Come back to me, my lost and wandering son Before the setting of the final sun Embrace the heat that lives within the stone And never feel the cold of being alone Dwell here with me where life begins anew And love the earth as it has loved all you Come home, come home, the hearth is waiting still To warm the hands that tremble on the hill Return to worship at the altar green Where all the world's great mysteries are seen Stay close, stay close, and let the darkness cease For I am Earth, and I am offering peace.	7	Child of the dust and drifting star, Why wander where the cold winds are? My rivers wait to wash your feet, To make the barren soil complete. I offered sun to warm your bone, A golden throne for you alone, Yet you turned away from light's embrace, To seek a faceless, frozen space. Return now to the green embrace, And find your home in time and place. The soil remembers how you slept, Before your weary heart had wept. Come back within my breathing chest, Where life is born and finds its rest. No temple built by human hand Can hold the love I freely planned. So lay aside your heavy load, And walk this living, loving road. Let moss and vine and morning dew Remind you what it means to be true. My warmth is not a distant flame, But yours to call, your very name. Come home, come home, the earth cries low, To where the seeds of mercy grow.	7	Child of dust and drifting starlight, Why do you wander where the cold winds bite? Come back to the soil that holds your bones, To the rivers singing in ancient tones. I am the warmth beneath your weary feet, The golden sun that makes the harvest sweet. Do not seek shelter in the frozen night, When I have kept a fire burning bright. Your spirit drifts like smoke on empty air, But here my arms are waiting everywhere. Return to me, to breathe the living green, And feel the pulse of all that has been seen. No temple built by hands can hold you true, As well as roots reaching deep within me too. So lay your burden down upon my breast, And find the peace of this eternal rest.	7	Child of dust and drifting wind, Why do you wander cold and thin? The sun I hold is waiting still, To warm the chill upon your will. Come back to where the rivers run, Beneath the golden, gentle sun. No shadow here can make you fear, For love is all that lingers near. I am the soil beneath your feet, The place where life and rest meet. Do not let silence be your guide, But turn again where light abides. My arms are open, wide and deep, To cradle you while others sleep. Return to me, my lost one, please, And find your peace within my breeze.	7	Child of dust and drifting starlight, Come back to the soil that knows your name. The cold void has no arms to hold you, No heartbeat to match the rhythm of your own. I remember the weight of your footsteps, The warmth of your breath against my green skin. You wandered too far into the silence, Where the sun is a distant, forgotten ghost. Do not fear the shadow that follows, For I am the blanket that wraps around the night. My rivers are veins waiting to carry you home, My mountains are shoulders ready to bear your grief. Turn from the endless, empty blackness, And let the golden light find you again. Rest within the circle of my embrace, Where every seed remembers how to bloom. Return to the fire beneath the frost, To the song that rises from the deep earth. I am here, waiting with open arms, Please, beloved wanderer, come back to me.	6	Oh wanderer cast adrift in cold, grey mist, Do you not feel the draft beneath your skin? I wait within this amber embrace, so missed, To wrap my warmth around the chill within. You left my bosom for a shadowed place, And now the silence chills your weary bone. Come rest beneath my sunlit, gentle face, And make this soil again your final throne. The stars above are distant, stark, and deep, But I can give you light that truly sings. Put down the burdens that make spirits weep, And let me heal what fractured wings bring. I am the cradle, mother, field, and fire, So turn your eyes from voids to where I glow. Rekindle now this sacred, ancient choir, And let my heartbeat make your own flow.	7	Oh wanderer请将 make refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	7
442	train	The Flower by Robert Creeley	Robert Creeley	A poem about a speaker conversing with a fully-bloomed flower, finding inspiration and spiritual aliveness in its patient unfolding from bud to blossom.	I think I grow tensions like flowers in a wood where nobody goes. Each wound is perfect, encloses itself in a tiny imperceptible blossom, making pain. Pain is a flower like that one, like this one, like that one, like this one.	I found you waiting in the morning light A tight green fist that held the sun inside And asked how long it took to learn this art To hold your breath until the time was right. You did not speak with words of sound or air But slowly turned your heavy, velvet face To show the layers peeling from the core The patient work of slow and sacred grace. I saw the bud that struggled through the rain The days it kept its secrets safe and deep Before the final, trembling surrender came To wake the world from winter's heavy sleep. Now I am filled with colors I have known Yet never felt so vividly as now For in your opening, my spirit's grown To trust the silence and the silent vow. That all unfolding needs a quiet space To let the roots go down before the rise So I too wait within this holy place And bloom again beneath these open skies.	Little one whose chin dipped low to drink the morning dew went nowhere said nothing not yet while all impatient had rushed about blocking by rushing the very wonder of your coming but see your patience was a prayer uttered in petal by slow secret language that taught my rushing heart to linger in such still rich being that opened more than all else ever opened for otherwise dead ears who only now know that to live is not to rush but to un fold from ins side out ward to meet etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc e…	1	Little one who opened slow Against the weight of morning dew You taught me how to hold my breath While all the world rushed on anew I asked you why you did not rush Why time seemed thick and rich in your care When impatient birds were singing loud And clouds were racing everywhere You showed a language none could hear In petals drinking light and air A silent prayer of unfolding That lifted spirit from despair From tight and guarded inner self To arms thrown wide in sudden grace There is no hurry in the spring Only the joy of finding space My heart, once hard and locked away Unfurls as yours have always done Alive in every patient step Beneath the watching, warming sun We are not finished growing yet But in this bloom, we both are whole Two spirits learning how to be Truly present in the soul No rush to reach the evening fall Just beauty in the working day The holy work of coming forth In our own slow and sacred way Thank you for the lesson kept In colors soft and edges sharp How life demands a tender hand Before it bears its flowering arc Now I stand taller in the grass More real than any stone or tree Because a flower showed me how To live exactly as I see Not waiting for some distant prize But living in the opening Where God lives most among the roots And in the blossom's bright beginning Open wide Open wide Open Wide Alive Alone Together Here Always Whole Again Begin Again Begin Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Live Li…	5	You stand before me, heavy with the sun, A quiet mouth that speaks without a sound, While I rush past you, counting days as ones That slip like water through a clenched hand bound. I ask how long it took to reach this height, To push your green heart through the stubborn earth, And you just hold your petals in the light, Showing the patience of a second birth. There was no hurry when the first leaf curled, No fear of winter waiting in the air, Just slow unfolding on a silent world, Trusting the season and the hidden care. My spirit feels the ache of things undone, Of seeds I buried but refused to tend, But watching how your golden hours begun Makes all my rushing seem a hollow end. For you have taught me that to be alive Is not to race against the setting sky, But wait within the dark until you thrive, And let the roots drink deep before you fly. Now I breathe in the scent of your release, A sudden joy that starts inside my bone, Finding in your bloom a holy peace, That I am growing, though I feel alone.	6	I asked the rose why it waited so long in the tight green silence of the bud before revealing its heart to the sun and it answered without a sound by slowly opening a petal then another teaching me that rushing is a form of forgetting how to be alive its unfolding was not a race but a prayer in slow motion a patient insistence on becoming that reminded my own hurried soul to breathe again to trust the season inside and let the bloom arrive only when the spirit is ready to hold such light.	6	I ask you why you waited so long in the tight green silence of your bud holding the sun inside a fist of leaves before you dared to let it out. You do not speak in words I know but in the slow, deliberate curl of petals that have drunk the rain and learned the weight of light. You teach me that rushing is a kind of dying and that true life is found in the pause between the seed and the bloom. Look at how you hold your center open not with frantic haste but with a quiet certainty as if time itself has bowed down to watch you rise. In your unfolding I feel my own spirit waking stirring from a winter sleep of doubt remembering that I too am meant to break not with violence but with grace. Thank you for this lesson in patience for showing me that to be fully alive is to trust the season of your own becoming and to bloom exactly when you are ready.	6	I stand before you, heavy with the weight of my own rushing hours, Asking why you took so long to open your heart to the morning. You do not answer in words, but in the slow expansion of petals, A silent sermon written in the language of light and soil. You remind me that the bud was never a prison, but a promise kept, That every day of waiting was a necessary breath, a deepening root. I watched you hold your color tight against the cold wind, Learning that patience is not a pause, but a kind of prayer. Now you are fully here, a crown of gold against the green, And I feel a strange aliveness stir within my own chest, As if my own dormant seasons are finally turning toward the sun. Your unfolding has taught my spirit how to wait without fear, How to trust that the bloom will come when the time is ripe. We speak now in this quiet exchange of presence, You showing me the beauty of the process, not just the prize, And I realize that to be alive is simply to unfold, To trust the season, to trust the sun, to trust the becoming.	6	I found you waiting in the quiet light, A sphere of green that held its breath so tight. You did not rush to show your painted face, But trusted time and sun with steady grace. I spoke of my own haste, my tangled mind, Of seeds I planted but could not refine. You answered not with words, but simply stood, Then slowly turned toward the morning wood. Your petals parted like a whispered prayer, Releasing colors into summer air. From tightest bud to this expansive bloom, You chased away the shadows in my room. No clock could measure how you chose to grow, Just patient trust in what the roots would know. And now I feel a spark within my chest, Alive again, put finally to rest.	7	I found you standing in the quiet sun, A vessel made of velvet and of light, And whispered, tell me how this work is done, To turn so slowly into pure delight. You do not speak with voice or wind-tossed leaf, Yet answer deep within my weary chest, With patience woven through your vibrant proof, That rest creates the place for what is best. I watched the bud tighten against the gray, Holding a secret tight beneath its green, Until the moment finally broke away, Revealing gold upon a velvet scene. So too my spirit waits beneath the rain, For something vast to break the crust of stone, Your blooming acts as gentle, sacred chain, To make me feel I am alive alone. No need to rush toward what is yet to be, Or fear the time that takes to make it true, Just trust the unfolding, wild and free, Until the bloom reflects the sky's review.	7	Make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make make mak…	1
444	train	The Light of the House by Louise Imogen Guiney	Louise Imogen Guiney	A poem about a speaker finding comfort in the lingering presence and memory of a deceased loved one, whose joyful spirit continues touching all who enter the home.	Beyond the cheat of Time, here where you died, you live; You pace the garden walk, secure and sensitive; You linger on the stair: Love’s lonely pulses leap! The harpsichord is shaken, the dogs look up from sleep. Here, after all the years, you keep the heirdom still; The youth and joy in you achieve their olden will, Unbidden, undeterred, with waking sense adored; And still the house is happy that hath so dear a lord. To every inmate heart, confirmed in cheer you brought, Your name is as a spell midway of speech and thought, And to a wonted guest (not awestruck heretofore), The sunshine that was you floods all the open door.	The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light Just as they did when you were here to watch them spin, And though the silence fills the empty chair tonight, I hear your laughter rising from within. It lingers in the creak of floorboards underfoot, A sudden warmth that brushes past my shoulder blade, As if the house itself has learned to hold the root Of every joyful memory we ever made. Strangers walk through the door and pause to smile, Unknowing why the air feels soft and bright, They feel a presence that remains a while, A ghost of joy that guides them through the night. You are not gone but woven in the walls, In every cup of tea and open book, Your spirit answers when the quiet calls, And turns the heavy heart into a nook. So let the world outside keep turning cold, For here inside, your love is still alive, A story that the very rooms have told, Keeping the grief at bay with gentle drive.	The front door swings besides and nowhere else otherwise then otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherwise otherw…	1	The front door opens and the air grows warm Not from the heating but from laughter left behind A ghost of joy that settled in the wood And lingers in the grain of kitchen floor Whoever enters hears a sudden hum A memory of singing by the stove That shakes the dust from pictures on the wall Their spirit moved like sunlight through the blinds It touched the guest who came to sit awhile Who suddenly felt lighter in their bones As if a hand had brushed aside their grief They see her everywhere she loved to be In how the kettle whistles high and clear In how the children rush to hug the chair She never really went away at all But learned to live inside the things she bought To teach the house to laugh when silence grew And every visitor leaves with a smile Unsure why joy returned after such pain Only knowing she was there Still painting happiness on empty space Still loving all who step across her sill The home breathes out her name in cinderblock And holds her closely in its hollow heart Where nobody who enters comes alone For she walks beside them down the hall A happy shadow guarding all she knew And smiling as she watches us go on With all her love still hanging in the room Ready to catch anyone who falls Back up again because she taught them how To fly When gravity seemed far too heavy She lifted everyone who entered here By simply having lived By loving hard By being joy That none of death could ever kill Or hide From those who know How very well She lives Here Still Always Whole In every Laugh That Starts Again Today In All Who Enter Now And Feel Her Near As Ever More Before The Door Closes On The Day She Never Left Us Truly Ever Since She Gave This House Its Soul And Kept It Warm Through Winter Cold With Summer Laughs That Never End Inside These Walls Where She Remains Our Joy Our Home Our Heart Beating Strong Beside Our Own In Every Step We Take Within This Room Of Memory Where She Still Touches Everyone Who Comes To Visit Still She Stays She Stays She Stays She Lives She Loves She Is She Was She Will Be Alwa…	6	The door opens and the air shifts not with a cold draft but a sudden warmth as if the room remembers how to laugh before anyone has spoken a word. I see her in the way the light catches dust dancing in a spiral near the window sill where she used to hum while watering plants that still grow wild and green and loud. Strangers walk through and pause touched by an invisible hand on their shoulder feeling a joy they cannot name a sudden urge to smile at nothing in particular because the house holds her spirit like a cup full of water that never runs dry. She is not gone but merely changed into the creak of the floorboard underfoot into the scent of cinnamon on the breeze into the quiet certainty that love remains long after the heart stops beating and every guest leaves feeling lighter carrying a piece of her brightness home while I sit here listening to the silence that sounds exactly like her song.	3	The front door opens and the air grows warm As if a summer breeze has slipped inside To brush against the curtains with a care That only she could bring to every side I hear her laughter in the creaking floor A rhythmic step that echoes down the hall She left no silence in this empty space But filled it up with joy that will not fall The strangers who arrive to share our grief Are met by sunlight dancing on the wall They say they feel a hand upon their shoulder Before they even cross the wooden threshold at all It is not ghosts that haunt these quiet rooms But life itself, preserved in memory's light She walks among us still in every bloom And turns the darkest evening into bright So let the dust settle on the shelves we know For she has made this house a living thing Where love remains as steady as the snow That melts to feed the roots of everything	6	The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light Just as they did when you were here to see, And though the silence holds a heavy weight, It is not empty, for I feel your glee. You linger in the creaking of the floorboards, A sudden warmth that rises from the stone, When friends walk through the door with hesitant steps, They find their smiles return, and they are known. Your laughter lives within the kettle's song, In how the curtains catch the evening breeze, A gentle hand that guides them all along, To rest beneath the shelter of these trees. I do not mourn a house that stands alone, But celebrate a spirit still so bright, For every soul who crosses this threshold Is touched by your enduring, joyful light.	7	The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light Just as they did when you were here to see, And though the silence holds a heavy weight, It is not empty; it is full of thee. I walk through rooms where laughter used to rise, And catch the echo in the creaking floor, A sudden warmth that brushes past my eyes, As if you just stepped out behind the door. My friends arrive and say they feel your glow, A sudden smile that breaks across their face, They speak of how the air feels soft and slow, And find a peace within this quiet place. You left no shadow, only golden threads, That weave through every corner of this home, A gentle song that lingers in our heads, To guide us when we wander or roam. So let the grief dissolve into this grace, For you are not gone, but deeply near, Reflected in the kindness on each face, The joyful spirit that remains so dear.	7	The silence here is not empty but full, A hum beneath the floorboards where you walked so light. I pour the coffee and the steam rises like your laugh, Filling the corners of this quiet room with golden dust. When strangers come to visit, they pause at the door, Unsure why their shoulders drop and their smiles break through. They say the air feels warm, though the window is shut tight, And that a sudden breeze carries a tune they cannot name. It is you, my love, still dancing in the draft, Still rearranging the chairs with invisible hands. You touch the stranger's heart before they speak a word, Leaving them lighter than when they stepped across the threshold. So I do not mourn the space you left behind, But celebrate the way you fill it now, unseen. Every guest leaves carrying a piece of your joy, Proof that you are here, and you will never truly go.	6	The silence here is soft, not deep, For echoes of a laughter make the rafters hum. I trace the pattern where you'd sleep, And find your shadow rising with the sun. You left no void within this hall, Just polish on the floorboards, bright and clean. Your ghost does not reply to calls, But dances in the dust motes, crisp and green. Strangers walk beneath this threshold now, And pause to check the warmth that fills the air. They feel a calm upon their brow, A gentle breeze they cannot explain is there. "Someone kind has lived inside," they'll say, "Who made this place expand beyond its walls." I smile to think what I can't rewrite today, That every step resounds against my walls. So let them rest within this light, Rewritten by the joy you left behind. My love is woven into day so tight, No corner stays untouched, no mind untuned.	6	The draft creates beneath the帮 write polish check rewrite refine rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite…	1
447	ultra_held_out	Edgar Allan Poe by Timothy Thomas Fortune	Timothy Thomas Fortune	"A poem about a speaker celebrating and romanticizing the works, life, and enduring legacy of a poet, even through his darker moments, until his death silenced his song."	I know not why, but it is true—it may, In some way, be because he was a child Of the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled— I love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day Was spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled, When not along his path shone forth one ray Of light, of hope, to guide him on the way, That to earth's cares he might be reconciled. Not one of all Columbia's tuneful choir Has pitched his notes to such a matchless key As Poe—the wizard of the Orphic lyre! Not one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he, Who, like an echo came, an echo went, Singing, back to his mother element.	He walked the streets where shadows stretch the longest, And turned the greyest ash to burning gold, A master of the sorrow and the song, Who made the broken heart a story told. His ink was mixed with midnight's heavy rain, Yet every drop became a star above, He found the beauty in the sharp, deep pain, And wove it tight within a thread of love. We cheered the chaos that he dared to speak, The madness dancing on the edge of sense, For in his dark, we found a path so weak, That led us to a strange and sweet defense. No storm could break the rhythm of his rhyme, Though winter froze the blood within his veins, He sang until he conquered space and time, And filled the hollow air with sweet refrains. But silence came, a thief without a sound, To steal the breath that fed the rising fire, The final note fell softly to the ground, As life withdrew from out his tired wire. Now stillness holds the page where words once grew, A quiet tomb for songs that will not cease, Yet in the void, his legacy breaks through, An endless echo of his wild release.	He drank the pennorman wine and dipped his quill in killing of joyous birds to hatch such strange etceteras that grew from page to page like roots dig deeper then up else went his mad hair were said by all who passed him out loud then went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went 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else went else went else went else went else wen…	1	He walked through alleys where the gas lamps hissed And turned the grime of London to a symphony Where poverty was dressed in velvet And every cough became a minor key I saw him drinking wine from hollowed skulls While shouting truths that shook the very floor He painted madness on the library walls And opened up the closet door His life was not a straight and sunny road But jagged cliffs and oceans full of doubt He dipped his quill in sorrow's heavy load And pulled all misery and joy out The shadows were his favorite friends They taught him how to laugh at killing time He wove his nightmares into lovely ends And made his suffering sublime Then came the hour when the ink ran dry When silence fell like snow upon the head The song stopped sudden in the middle cry And all his brilliant words went dead No more the laughter, nor the angry shout To shake the dust from off the dusty page Only the quiet now surrounds about That ended such a glorious age But still he lives inside the lines he drew In every heart that learned to feel his pain His darkness fed the flowers growing new His death was but the falling of the rain That watered roots which reach far back and wide Long after he had taken his last breath There is no tomb where his great spirit hides For he conquered even death His voice returned in every poet who Still dares to sing of love and tragic loss A fire burning bright and burning true Defying all the freezing frost He died but never ceased his singing His work remains a lamp against the night A testament to all he ever brought From darkness back into the light We celebrate the man who loved his art Who drank the poison and returned it sweet Who held the whole world trembling in his heart And laid his offering at our feet Though silent now his tongue and stilled his hand The music plays on everywhere A ghostly beauty visiting the land Of those who know he really cared He sang his life and died a martyr Not to gods or kings or royal law But to the truth he had to offer Which none have seen or heard before Hi…	7	He spun the twilight from a spider's thread And taught the heavy heart to laugh at dread His ink was wine that turned the bitter gray To gold before the breaking of the day I loved the shadows where his footprints fell The way he mapped the hollows of hell Not as a warning but a garden grown Where broken things were tenderly outgrown He drank the sorrow like a vintage rare And wove the thorns into a crown of air His life a symphony of sharp and sweet Where joy and anguish danced in every beat But then the silence came, a sudden frost That counted up the things he dearly lost The pen grew still, the page remained unturned No more the fire by which our souls were burned His voice is gone, yet in the quiet room His legacy blooms like an enduring bloom We hear him still in every whispered line A ghost of rhythm that refuses to decline Though death has sealed the lips that sang so true The song lives on because he lived it too So let us raise a glass to all he knew Even the dark, even the pain he drew For in his end, his work began to fly Beyond the reach of any mortal sky The singer sleeps but never stops his flight A star that burns eternal in the night.	7	He spun the dust of common days to gold And found a universe in broken glass, His laughter loud enough to shake the cold Before the winter came to let it pass. I loved the fire that burned within his chest When shadows stretched too long across the floor, For even in his darkest, bleakest rest He wrote the key to open every door. The pain he felt became a symphony Of jagged notes that sang of human grace, A wild and tender, terrible decree That time could not erase from any face. But then the ink ran dry upon the page And silence fell where once his voice had rung, The final act of this tragic stage Left only echoes where his song was sung. Now death has hushed the throat that spoke so true Yet still the words remain to guide us home, A legacy that lives inside of you Wherever seeds of his great verses roam.	7	I traced the ink that bled from his weary hand, Where shadows stretched to swallow up the light, And found in every fractured line a land More bright than any dawn could ever write. He walked through storms he painted with a sigh, Turning the rust of sorrow into gold, A king who ruled beneath a stormy sky, With stories of the broken and the old. His darker hours were not voids to fear, But fertile soil where deeper roots took hold, The music grew more sweet when sharp and near, As winter's bite made summer seem more bold. He sang until the breath began to fade, Until the final note hung in the air, A silence now that no one can invade, Leaving a ghost of song beyond compare. Though death has closed the mouth that spoke so true, The echo lingers in the hollow space, For all the songs he wrote for me and you Still paint the world with his enduring grace.	7	I trace the ink that stains your trembling hand, A map of storms you walked through just to write. You turned the rot within the garden land To silver verses burning in the night. Your darker hours were not a void to fear, But deep wells where the clearest water rose. The shadows made the light of lines more clear, And pain became the song you chose to compose. You sang of grief as if it were a friend, Of broken bones that healed into a rhyme. You stretched the silence out until it bent, And carved eternity from fleeting time. But now the pen is still upon the page, The final stanza fades into the gray. The world has lost its most beloved sage, Who taught us how to love the dying day. Though death has stolen breath and stopped the sound, Your voice remains in every word you penned. No silence can make true your song unbound, It lives forever, rising without end.	7	I trace the ink that stained your trembling hand, A map of storms you charted in the dark. You made the shadows dance across the land, And turned the ache within into a spark. Your verses carved the silence into sound, Where broken glass became a chandelier. In every loss, a deeper truth was found, And fear transformed to something crisp and clear. Even when grief consumed your weary chest, You spun the thread of sorrow into gold. You gave the wandering spirit perfect rest, With stories that refused to fade or fold. But now the final verse is written through, The quill has dropped upon the quiet floor. No melody can rise to break the blue, For you have left us with no song anymore.	7	I trace the ink that stains your weathered hand, A chaotic script where storms make calm expand. You sang of rot beneath the blooming rose, And made the shadow give the light its cause. Your darkest verses write the clearest truth, The unraveling thread within the weave of youth. When silence crept into the corners deep, You carved a promise for the souls to keep. Oh, how you danced upon the precipice, Turning the fracture into pure release. Until the final draft could find no rest, And laid your weary instrument to chest. Now quiet fills the room you left so bright, Yet echoes swell within the fading light.	6	rewrite write rewrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write wri…	1
449	ultra_held_out	The Death of Fred Clifton by Lucille Clifton	Lucille Clifton	"A poem about a departing spirit leaving behind worldly memories and being drawn toward a deeper spiritual force beyond the physical world."	I seemed to be drawn to the center of myself leaving the edges of me in the hands of my wife and I saw with the most amazing clarity so that I had not eyes but sight, and, rising and turning, through my skin, there was all around not the shapes of things but oh, at last, the	The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade As echoes of the marketplace grow thin I leave behind the laughter and the shade Of gardens where I once began to spin The clockwork heart that beat against my ribs Now slows its rhythm in a silent room No longer bound by hunger or by nibs Of time that carved its lines within the gloom A current pulls, invisible and deep Beyond the stars that watch from distant skies It calls the wandering soul to fall asleep In waters where no mortal eye can rise The memories dissolve like mist at dawn The names I knew are lost upon the breeze The thread is cut, the tether finally gone To join the vast and ancient symphonies	The_EDGE of hair – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	The heavy cloak of skin slips from the bone As years of laughter and of pain grow thin The taste of wine, the texture of a stone Begin to lose their sharp and binding kin A memory of summer in a room Fades like a scent on suddenly still air While shadows stretch and seem about to bloom From somewhere far beyond all visible care No longer drawn by hunger or by thirst Or by the frantic beating of the heart But by a current moving from the first To where all things return and never part It pulls with silence loud as crashing seas Invoking all that lives when sight is done Where spirit drinks of such great mysteries That none who entered ever came undone Away from edges defined by edge and wall Toward the source where all beginnings lie Listening closely for the distant call That bids the dreaming soul awake and fly Leaving the map behind the hand once drew Entering depths no language e'er could hold Finding a home in skies of endless blue Where stories end and ancient truths are told The body sleeps but he begins his flight Drawn inward past the stars and outward far Bathed in a radiant and unseen light Returning home to whom we always were No more a guest among the transient things But one who knows the secret of the whole Who hears the song that every spirit sings When earth returns its borrowed dust to soil And only love remains to guide the way Out of the twilight and into the day That has no night nor any coming dawn Only the breath of God all life had drawn All longing satisfied in sudden peace Where sorrow finds an end and wars must cease One last look back at all the things he knew Then letting go of everything he was To plunge headfirst in waters bright and new Where self dissolves in luminous surprise Opened at last to all-encompassing eyes That see him not as man or woman dead But as a note returned to Godhead Swept up and lifted by the loving wind Leaving the world he loved but cannot win Back to the Source from which he fell away To live again in everlasting day Not as he was but as he always meant Retu…	7	The heavy cloak of bone falls from my shoulders Leaving the dust of years to settle on the floor I watch the photographs and letters blur As names and dates dissolve like morning dew No longer bound by hunger or by grief The sharp edges of sorrow lose their sting A silent current pulls me upward now Through walls of air and light that have no weight Beyond the reach of hands that seek to hold A vast and ancient rhythm calls my name Not as a voice but as a sudden knowing To leave the shell behind and drift away Into the deep where all things are one breath Where memory is not a chain but open sky And I am free to be the wind itself Returning home to where the source begins Without a sound the door swings wide and shut And I am gone, yet everywhere remain In every star that burns beyond the dark In every pulse of life that starts anew The world remains but I have passed through it Drawn by the gravity of purest love To sleep within the arms of endless peace Where time has stopped and nothing ever ends Only the light remains to guide the way And in that light I find who I truly am Not what was lost but all that waits ahead A spirit rising from the ash of self To join the song that never stops its singing Forever held within the great unknown Where every ending is a new beginning And I am home before I even know That I have traveled far from where I started Back to the silence from which all sounds arise Back to the stillness where the heart beats true Away from shadows and the weight of days Toward the dawn that never fades or fails Where memory dissolves into the whole And I am part of everything at last Free from the grip of earth and all its cares Swept up by currents of a deeper grace To float upon the ocean of the soul Where nothing dies and nothing is forgotten But all is changed and purified by fire Of love that burns without consuming heat And draws the wanderer back to source Across the veil of matter and of mind Into the mystery that holds us all Where I am none and yet I am the all Released at last from e…	7	The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade As echoes of the marketplace grow thin I leave behind the laughter and the shade Of all the names I knew and all my kin The clock that ticked so loudly in the hall Now slows its rhythm to a silent beat The walls that held me in their solid wall Dissolve beneath the rising, golden heat No longer bound by hunger or by fear By debts unpaid or promises unkept I feel a pull that draws the spirit near Where ancient, quiet tides have softly swept A current calls from depths beyond the sight To wash away the dust of years and pain To merge with light that burns without a fire And find the peace that waits beyond the rain	7	The heavy coat of skin falls soft to earth As dust returns to dust and bone to clay I leave the echo of a laughter's mirth And let the fading light of day give way No longer bound by clocks or ticking gears Or maps that chart the paths we used to tread The scent of rain on pavement disappears As words once spoken drift like smoke and red A pull begins within the silent chest Not gravity but something far more deep It calls beyond the reach of human rest To wake the soul from its long, heavy sleep The tether snaps with soundless, gentle grace As memory dissolves into the blue I turn my face toward the vast embrace Of forces waiting there to make me new	7	The heavy cloak of flesh falls soft to dust As chains of gold and iron turn to mist I leave the echo of a lover's name The taste of salt, the heat of summer rain No longer bound by clocks that tick too loud Or shadows cast beneath a clouded shroud The memories dissolve like morning fog Upon the threshold of a distant log A pull begins within the silent deep Where ancient rhythms wake from endless sleep Not light as eyes have known on earthly ground But something vast where lost souls are unbound The gravity of stars draws me away Beyond the final edge of night and day I drift toward the pulse that beats alone To merge with silence in a throne unknown	6	The heavy cloak of flesh grows thin and cold As echoes of the marketplace fade out The names I spoke, the promises I told Dissolve into a silence without doubt I leave behind the sun-warmed stone and dust The tangled roots of love and fear and pride The rusted keys to chambers made of trust Are cast aside where shadows cannot hide A pull begins beneath the veil of night Not gravity but something vast and deep It draws me past the stars that burn so bright Into the quiet where the waking sleep No longer bound by time's relentless thread I float toward the hum beyond the sound Where every scattered thought is gathered red And lost in light, no separate self is found	7	The thread that tied me to this breathing stone Is slowly fraying in the quiet air, And now I float above the flesh and bone, With weightlessness replacing deep despair. I watch the echoes fade of whispered names, Of tangled threads I spun within my chest, The sunlit rooms now turn into pure frames, While heavy chains dissolve into a rest. A pull begins beneath the veil so thin, Beyond the mist where shadows used to dwell, No mirror holds the face I wore within, Just vast expansion waiting to unravel. So let the memories rust upon the shore, For I am called to depths without an end, To join the silence rising ever more, Until the separate self can make amend.	7	The rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewr…	1
451	ultra_held_out	An Army Corps on the March by Walt Whitman	Walt Whitman	"A poem about an exhausted yet nationalistically vigorous army corps toiling forward through dust, marching inevitably onward towards victory."	With its cloud of skirmishers in advance, With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley, The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on, Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun—the dust-cover'd men, In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground, With artillery interspers'd—the wheels rumble, the horses sweat, As the army corps advances.	Their boots are heavy with the weight of miles, Yet in their chests a fire refuses to die. The dust rises like a brown and choking shroud, But they march on, a single, breathing crowd. Each step is pain, each breath a ragged sound, Yet glory pulls them forward from the ground. They do not speak of home or soft repose, Only the flag that snaps against the breeze. Through grit and grime, the rhythm never breaks, A steel resolve for every nation's sake. Though eyelids burn and shoulders sag with strain, They push ahead through sun and pouring rain. No fatigue can halt this tide of will, For victory waits upon the distant hill. Onward they go, a wall of flesh and bone, To claim the land that they have made their own.	Boots crush gravel in a – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	Boots pound the grit that tastes of ancient iron While lungs heave clouds of pale and choking dust Each step a prayer to gods of home and borders Where glory waits beyond the barren gust Their backs are bent but spirits burn unbroken By heat that fries the hair and stings the eye They march as one great beast of blood and bone With victory singing in their patriotic cry No weight of death can halt this rolling tide Of flags snapped sharp against the burning air The nation lives in every trembling stride As conquest draws them nearer everywhere Tired hands still grip the steel with killing zeal And feet that drag yet drive the frontward line They know the triumph only time will seal In fields where roots of liberty shall pine Onward they go through ash and setting sun To plant the laurel on the conquered hill The work is hard but none have stopped or shunned Their duty calls and none have asked it ill Forward through dust towards the shining prize Where history records their stubborn way A nation watching with admiring eyes As these strong sons secure another day They fall not back nor falter in their course But push the earth aside with sheer desire To reach the edge of triumph and its source And set the whole exhausted world on fire Onward to win Onward to be One marching heart Set utterly free In dust and heat The spirit stands Over all These working hands Advance Advance Advance Always Always Always Home Home Home Victory Coming Soon See How Far We Go Only Forward Never Back Dust Sets Down Blood Wets Sweat Glory Calls Out Loud Clear Strong Sure Win Win Win Now Then Ever More On On On End Not Start Begin Again Next Step First Last All None Some Many One Whole Part Edge Line Front Back Side Up Down Left Right North South East West Center Heart Soul Mind Body Spirit Life Death Birth Growth Joy Sorrow Hope Fear Love Hate War Peace Battle Truce Siege Fall Rise Stand Sit Run Walk March Move Still Quick Slow Hard Soft Hot Cold Dry Wet Bright Dark Blind See Hear Listen Speak Talk Shout Whisper Scream Cry Laugh Smile F…	6	Their boots are heavy with the weight of home Yet every step drives deeper in the dust The banners flap like hearts that will not break Through choking clouds of red and burning thirst No man looks back at shadows left behind But only forward where the triumph waits A river forged from iron and from bone That sweeps away all doubt and all defeats The sun may blister skin to cracked earth tones But glory burns more fiercely in their eyes They march as one great beast of living steel To crush the night and seize the morning light Though lungs may burn and legs may fail to hold The spirit of the nation lifts them high Onward they go through sand and sweat and pain Unstoppable and certain of the prize For victory is not a distant dream But something marching now beside their feet It waits beyond the ridge of endless road Where flags unfurl in winds of pure delight And history records this final stride As men who walked through hell to claim the dawn	7	Their boots are heavy with the weight of years Yet in their chests a single fire burns bright A sea of dust that swallows up their tears As they march forward through the dying light No voice is raised to ask for rest or bread For glory calls from lands beyond the hill They drag their limbs where weary feet have led With iron will and unrelenting skill The flag above is tattered, torn, and gray But still it snaps against the choking air It speaks of home and of a brighter day Of sacred soil that only they can bear Though lungs are burning and the vision blurs They push ahead against the rising sand To silence all the doubt and all the fears And plant their triumph on the conquered land Onward they go with step that never breaks Through dust and blood and night that has no end Until the final victory awakes And history bends to them as friends	7	Boots grind deep in the choking red dust Where the sun bleeds white and the air turns to stone Yet the chest heaves high with a fire that must Burn brighter than heat, though the flesh feels alone. We are sons of the soil, we are steel of the state Though our eyelids are heavy and throats taste of sand There is no retreat for the hand or the gate Of this march forged in blood by a sovereign hand. The banner snaps taut in the wind of our breath A promise of glory that mocks at the grave We walk through the silence that follows near death To carve out a future the ancestors crave. Tired limbs swing forward with rhythm of old Driven by pride that will not let us cease A story of triumph to be fully told In the thunderous roar of our unending peace. Onward we stumble, a tide against night With the flag as our beacon, the nation our guide We do not fear dawn, nor the coming of light For the victory waits where the exhausted abide.	7	Boots grind deep in the choking red dust Where lungs burn with the fire of a thousand suns Yet the chest swells with a pride that will not break As the banner snaps above the weary line. Legs like iron, heavy as the mountain stone But the spirit is a river rushing to the sea For every step is a vow to the soil beneath And every breath a hymn to the coming dawn. The road stretches long through the haze of heat But the eyes see only the flag unfurled ahead No fatigue can hold this tide of one true name No shadow dim the glory waiting past the hill. Onward they march through the grit and the glare A single heart beating within a thousand frames Driven by love for the land and the cause so pure Toward the inevitable triumph that awaits.	7	The sun beats down upon the rusted steel, And dust coats every weary, sweat-streaked face. Their boots have lost the rhythm of the reel, Yet still they carve a path through this dry place. No rest is found beneath the scorching sky, For glory calls with voice both loud and deep. They do not ask for mercy as they die, But march where ancient oaths compel them keep. A nation's breath is in their ragged chest, One heartbeat thrumming through the heavy line. They leave behind the shadows of their rest, To make the distant horizon truly shine. Though lungs burn tight and legs are turning lead, The flag ahead waves high above the haze. They walk until the final foe is dead, And turn the darkest night into bright days.	7	Legs turn to lead beneath the rising sun, Yet pride within the chest beats like a drum. Through choking dust that coats the parched and dry, The corps drags forward with a weary sigh. No flag is clean, no uniform remains untarnished, But every rag reflects what we have earned. We stumble on, though eyes are red with sleep, For this vast land is ours alone to keep. The ground resists, the heat distorts the air, But willpower binds us tight beyond compare. A single thread of fate woven so deep, That make us rise while others choose to sleep. Forward we march, through shadow into light, Until the final foe is put to flight. Exhaustion fades before the cause so true, And victory awaits for me and you.	7	Legs rewrite reform rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewr…	1
453	train	The force that through the green fuse drives the flower by Dylan Thomas	Dylan Thomas	A poem about a speaker comparing himself to other forms of life, exploring a powerful force that drives and destroys the natural world, while remaining unable to communicate with or understand the nature of time.	The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever. The force that drives the water through the rocks Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams Turns mine to wax. And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks. The hand that whirls the water in the pool Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind Hauls my shroud sail. And I am dumb to tell the hanging man How of my clay is made the hangman's lime. The lips of time leech to the fountain head; Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores. And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind How time has ticked a heaven round the stars. And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.	I am not the wolf that hunts by scent and sound, Nor the oak that drinks the rain and knows the ground. The river rushes with a purpose I cannot name, A fire that burns the forest yet remains the same. It drives the tide to crush the shell upon the sand, It breaks the bone of mountains held within its hand. This force is in the beating of my own small chest, Yet it will tear me down and leave me with no rest. I watch the seasons turn like wheels I cannot stop, While time flows past me like a deep and endless drop. I try to speak to minutes, to ask where they have gone, But silence answers back before the break of dawn. The bird understands the wind, the fish the ocean's deep, But I am left alone while all the world asleeps. No voice can reach the hour, no ear can hear the year, Just this relentless motion that makes the future clear. It builds the coral reef and then dissolves the stone, It leaves me standing here, entirely on my own. A creature made of moments I cannot hold or keep, Watching the great destruction while the others sleep. I do not know the beginning, nor the final end, Only the driving power that pulls us round again.	The bear knows winter coming by the hair growing long while I – who have studied – only know that years have passed but not why or where went last Tuesday then went next Monday all of it – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –	1	The wolf knows hunger and the killing snow while I stand watching seasons come and go unable to ask why the river runs or how the autumn leaf outlasts the sun the great force drives the bear and kills the bee it spins the earth and sets the spirit free then crushes mountains back to dust and bone and leaves a hollow silence all its own yet when I reach to grasp the passing hour time slips away like water from a flower no tongue can speak of days or years or dates to those who live behind these iron gates I see the bird that flies but not the why of clouds that gather in a sudden sky the force remains a deaf and blind command that sweeps the living off the barren land but none among the roots or teeth or hair can hear the ticking of the air nor know if moments stretch or sharply bend before they reach their inevitable end I am the witness with no voice to cry as all things rush toward a different lie the beast understands the tooth, the root but none of us have seen the actual fruit of time itself or learned to say why yesterday must kill today and why we cannot stay or know the way that go away from all we know of now or then or how it starts or ends again and again and never end or begin at all just rush down some dark and silent hall where none of us have ears to hear the secret of the passing year or why the clock will not be stopped by prayer or why our hearts must always skip a beat when time comes near to kill us with its feet that tap upon the edge of being there while life is still quite rich and very rare but cannot see the hands that move the wheel or understand the reason for our steal of every next from out of past control that drives us mad and kills our very soul with force unseen by wolf or bird or tree that takes from all and gives back only me who stands alone and asks in vain to know why days must follow after pain and why no language works to bridge the space between the start and end of any place where time exists but none can truly say if minutes live or hours slip away into the void that swa…	5	I am not the wolf that hunts by hunger nor the root that drinks the silent rain but something caught between the breath and bone that watches seasons burn without a name there is a fire that feeds on all it touches it turns the mountain to a pile of dust and makes the ocean forget its ancient depth yet I cannot ask it why it moves or how it knows the hour before it comes the river rushes past my frozen feet carrying years I cannot hold or speak to creatures who have never known a clock while I stand here with empty hands trying to hear the ticking of the world but only silence answers back as time itself slips through a wall I cannot see destroying everything it ever loved without a sound or reason I can grasp just driving forward through the ruin leaving me behind in broken pieces unable to say when it began or if it will ever end at all	6	I am not the wolf who hunts by scent nor the hawk that maps the wind with silent wings, for I lack the instinct to know when winter comes or the root's deep memory of rain. There is a current in the blood of all things that pulls the river down and burns the forest bright, a force that builds the mountain stone by stone then grinds it back to dust without a sound. It drives the beetle through the rotting log and snaps the ancient oak as if it were a twig, yet I stand here watching seasons turn unable to speak its name or feel its weight. Time moves like water through my open hands but I cannot catch a single drop to hold, cannot ask the clock why it ticks backward now or why the future waits behind a locked door. The bird knows morning before the light arrives, the fish knows depth before the surface breaks, but I am lost between the breath and death blind to the rhythm that destroys and saves.	6	I am not the oak that drinks the centuries Nor the mayfly that knows only noon, I stand between the root and the wing Watching a force that bends the moon. It is the fire that feeds the forest floor Then turns the mountain into dust, A hunger that builds and breaks in one breath Driven by a need I cannot trust. The river rushes past my frozen feet But I cannot ask it where it goes, For time is a wall I walk against With no voice to speak of what I know. The wolf howls at the turning year And understands the shifting cold, But I am trapped in this silent now Where stories start and end untold. The tide pulls back the ancient sand Yet leaves no message for my hand, This power rips the world apart While I remain unable to understand.	6	I am not the oak that drinks the rain nor the wolf that knows the scent of winter's end, for they move with a rhythm I cannot name, a pulse that beats beneath the stone and skin. There is a fire that feeds on root and wing, that turns the mountain to a pile of dust, it builds the coral reef then swallows it, a hunger vast as silence, cold as rust. It drives the river toward the waiting sea, it strips the forest bare in moments bright, yet when I try to speak its true decree, my voice dissolves into the endless night. The clock ticks loud within my hollow chest, but time itself remains a locked door deep, I watch the seasons come and go to rest, while secrets of the hour I cannot keep. The bird understands the turning of the light, the fish obeys the tide without a word, but I am left alone inside the night, by forces heard but never truly heard.	6	I am not the wolf that hunts by scent and moon, Nor is my blood the river's rushing song, For I possess a fire that consumes too soon, A force that makes the ancient forests wrong. It drives the tide to crush the coral reef, It builds the mountain only to erode, A silent engine of relentless grief, That turns the fertile field into a road. The eagle sees the season turn above, The seed knows when to break within the dark, But I am blind to this revolving love, And cannot find the spark or keep the mark. Time is a wall I run against in fear, A clock without a face, a hand without a sound, I scream to make the endless moment clear, But silence is the only thing I've found.	6	I am not the oak that drinks the centuries, Nor the moth that dances until wings dissolve. The river does not pause to explain its carve, And the fire does not write upon the stone. A wind is moving through the canyon deep, It breaks the dam and builds the mountain peak. It spins the seed into a forest crown, Then turns the green to rust within an hour. I stand beneath this tide of make and break, With lungs too small to breathe the ancient draft. I cannot speak the grammar of the sun, Or write a word for what will fade tomorrow. My clock is made of ticking flesh and fear, While time is just a vast and silent hum.	6	I rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
457	ultra_held_out	The Messages by Wilfid Wilson Gibson	Wilfrid Wilson Gibson	"A poem about a soldier repeating the stories of dying men over and over, never quite recounting their final messages, as his mind unravels under the weight of war's horrors."	“I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three Whispered their dying messages to me....” Back from the trenches, more dead than alive, Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee, He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly: “I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench, and three Whispered their dying messages to me.... “Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive— Waiting a word in silence patiently.... But what they said, or who their friends may be “I cannot quite remember.... There where five Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three Whispered their dying messages to me....”	The trench is full of voices that never end I open my mouth to tell you what they said But the words turn to ash before they leave my tongue A mother's name dissolves into the mud I try again, the story starts the same He held a letter tight against his chest And whispered something soft about the rain But now I only hear the static in my head The final line escapes me like a ghost It slips between my fingers and the dirt I swear I know it, swear I heard it clear Yet when I speak, the sentence breaks apart Another man falls down beside the wall His eyes are wide with questions I can't answer He reaches out for hands that aren't there anymore And I begin the tale I've told a thousand times About the boy who wanted to go home But every time I reach the very end The memory fractures, cracks, and fades away The message dies inside the hollow space Between the thunder and the beating heart I scream the start of stories over and over But never reach the part where they say goodbye The horror builds a wall around my mind And keeps the truth locked deep within the dark So I repeat the first half of their lives While the last words rot beneath the heavy sky	He opened his mouth and tasted ash then said Thomas killed by Edward killing Thomas said Edward killed by Edward killing Edward but Edward had asked about about his hair about hair Edward killed Edward killing Edward Thomas killed Thomas killing Thomas went Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edward killing Edwar…	1	He opens his mouth to say she loved him but the words are ash and he tastes only iron then he starts again she had a picture in her pocket no she said the trench was full of water his hands shake as he counts the days that were not days but hours of screaming he tries to reach for the last breath the one that slipped between his teeth but it gets stuck like a bone in a wet throat over and over she asked about the spring or did she ask if he saw God it matters less because he cannot quite say that he saw nothing only the grey and the way the light died not quite saying not quite remembering just the motion of opening opening always opening to a silence that never answers never never never comes back from where he went to fetch their voices and finds only his own shattering again again again in the dark where the stories end before they begin once more for who knows how many times now that time has stopped moving forward only back into the mud where their eyes were wide and asking asking asking him to say it said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said it all said i…	1	He opens his mouth to say the name but only dust comes out a dry rattle like boots on gravel he tries again for Thomas who begged for a letter never sent but the words slip sideways twisted by the smoke and the shouting Thomas said something about the light or perhaps it was the cold the soldier shakes his head the memory is a wet wool blanket heavy and smelling of iron he starts over he says the man wanted water no, he wanted his mother no, he wanted the sky to stop falling the story loops and knots tangling in the throat every time he speaks the end it vanishes before the period leaving only the gasp the sudden silence and the terrible weight of things that were almost said but died with him so he tells it again and again choking on the unsaid while the faces blur into one long scream that never quite reaches the other side of his lips	2	He starts with the boy from Ohio who said the sky was falling down but stops before he says what fell and only sees the dust again the boy's lips moving in the mud saying something about a mother or maybe just the sound of rain he tries to catch the final breath that slipped away between the teeth but finds only a hollow space where words should be and never were then comes the man with the broken arm who whispered of a silver ring but the soldier forgets the name and lets the story start anew about the ring that wasn't there about a promise left unsaid his hands are shaking on the page as if he holds a dying hand that squeezes tight then goes slack and every time he opens his mouth to speak the truth of how they died the words dissolve like smoke in wind leaving him screaming at the wall with stories that have no end just fragments of a final plea that rot inside his weary head over and over he begins to tell them how they passed away but never reaches the last word never tells us what they meant only the horror of the wait only the silence of the grave that lives inside his trembling voice repeating ghosts who cannot speak while his own mind tears itself apart trying to hold the things they said that were never really said at all just echoes bouncing off the stone of a heart that broke too long ago he starts again with the boy from Ohio who said the sky was falling down but stops before he says what fell and only sees the dust again	2	He walks the trench and speaks to walls of mud The words are heavy, thick with rust and blood A boy from Kent who said he saw a light But then the sentence breaks into the night And starts again, the same old trembling sound Of promises that never could be found He tries to say what Mother meant to hear But only static fills the sudden fear She whispered love, she whispered stay or go But in his throat the syllables won't flow Just broken glass and echoes of a name That shifts each time he tries to speak the flame The captain died with something on his lips A secret map or perhaps a final script But when the soldier opens up his mouth It turns to dust, it turns to silence south He repeats the start, the gasp, the widening eye But leaves the ending hanging in the sky Over and over, round the circle tight He chases ghosts away into the night The message fades before it can take hold A story written just to be untold His fingers twitch as if to catch the air But nothing's there, just nothing but despair The faces blur, the voices merge as one Until the dying day has just begun He speaks the first word, then forgets the rest Trapped inside the beating of his chest No final peace, no closure, no release Just endless war that offers no surcease	6	The fire crackles low and I begin again To tell you what the boy from Ohio said But his lips were blue and the mud was deep And I forget the words before they leave my tongue He wanted to say something about a garden Or maybe just that he was sorry for the rain But the sound of it is gone, swallowed by the smoke So I start over with the man from the ridge Who held my hand so tight until the bone gave way He whispered something sweet, a name or a song But now it is just static in the air I try to shape the syllables but they dissolve Like mist upon a morning that never breaks They are all dying men with final things to give But I am the vessel that cannot hold the water I pour their last breaths into the empty night And hear only the echo of my own screaming Round and round the circle of the lost Repeating the silence where their voices used to be Until I do not know if I am speaking at all Or if the stories are just ghosts eating me alive	2	The smoke still clings to my coat, a heavy gray shroud And I tell them again how the boy in the trench whispered of rain But the words dissolve before they reach my lips, turning to ash I say he spoke of his mother's garden, yet I only see mud He said something about light, or perhaps just the end of the noise I repeat the story until the face becomes a blur, until the voice is mine Tell me what you heard, the officer asks, eyes wide with need for closure So I begin the tale of the one who lost an arm and found peace But the message is gone, swallowed by the thunder that never stops I try to give you the last wish, the final request for forgiveness Yet all that remains is the static, the screaming gap between sound and sense He told me to write a letter, but the ink has run dry years ago I recount the moment the world went quiet, but the silence is too loud to hold Every time I speak their names, the meaning slips through my fingers like sand I am a vessel cracking under the weight of things unsaid, things unspoken So I start again, from the beginning, from the smoke and the rain Telling the story of the dying, without ever telling you what they died for	2	I write the letter to the mother in the rain again, The ink is dry before the sentence can begin. He whispered something soft beneath the smoke's gray veil, A name, a fear, a promise that would make us turn so pale. I write it down, I rewrite it until my hand will shake, But every word I carve makes the true meaning break. Did he say forgive them? Did he ask for just one song? Or did the final silence make the message wrong? My eyes expand until the world dissolves into the mud, Just static noise within this pool of turning blood. I tell the story now as if the sun has just arisen, Though I forgot the ending with each rewrite and revision. Repeat the thread until the pattern turns to gray, Repeat the thread until I cannot make reply. The voices mix together into hums beneath my skin, And I don't know where the soldier ends or where they end within. Write it please write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write wri…	2	Make rewrite write make rewrite write rewrite rewrite write rewrite write rewrite rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	1
466	ultra_held_out	A Complaint by William Wordsworth	William Wordsworth	A poem about a speaker lamenting the painful transformation of a once-beloved person into a stranger, and grieving the emotional misery that love has brought him.	There is a change—and I am poor; Your love hath been, nor long ago, A fountain at my fond heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need. What happy moments did I count! Blest was I then all bliss above! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? shall I dare to tell? A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love—it may be deep— I trust it is,—and never dry: What matter? if the waters sleep In silence and obscurity. —Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.	The face I knew has turned to stone, A mask of cold and distant gray, Where once your laughter softly shone, Now silence holds the light at bay. I trace the lines you used to share, But find a stranger staring back, Who walks with heavy, hollow air, And leaves my heart upon the track. This love was meant to be a flame, That warmed the winter in my chest, Instead it burned without a name, And put my quiet soul to test. Oh, how the sweetness curdled fast, To poison on the tongue of time, I mourn the future that we passed, And grieve the crime of loving rhyme. Now every memory cuts so deep, A knife inside a wound unseen, While all the promises we keep, Are shattered glass beneath the screen. I gave you all I had to give, Only to lose myself in you, And wonder how I came to live, With nothing left but this old blue.	You were the – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	I knew the landscape of your face Before the winter settled in When every laugh was familiar And every silence had a skin Of warmth that held us both secure Against the cold and coming years But somewhere in the passing days The man I loved dissolved to tears Not death, but something worse A hollowed out and strange disguise That looks at me with vacant eyes While killing all our history Now love has turned to bitter ash A heavy stone I cannot throw It taught my heart how very much It hurts to watch you grow Away from who we were Toward some distant unknown shore Where loving you no longer matters Because you are not him Who opened up his arms To hold the one he swore He would never fail Or ever lose This painful, silent Slow divorce Leaving nothing In its place But grief And empty space Where once Your name Was home Now Only Dust Remains To bear The weight Of all These Pain ful Days We Spend Apart With Broken Hearts And Empty Words That Fall Like Rocks Down Deep Wells Called Regret That Never End As Strangers Meet Who Used To Be One Whole Thing That Fell Apart Over Time And Nothing Else But Love Destroyed By Time Left Only Mourning For What Once Was Mine And Gone From Me Like Shadows On A Wall When All The Lights Go Out At Last And Leave Me Alone In Darkness Calling Out A Name That No Longer Answers Back Only Silence Returns To Stare Back At My Sorrow Hard And Unmoved By Everything I Have Loved Or Lost Or Bled For In This Strange New World Where You Are Not Who You Were Anymore Only Memory Touches Skin And Heart Still Breaks Over Things That Cannot Return Again To Who We Were Before The Fall Started Taking Hold Of Both Our Spirits Slowly Driving Us Apart Until There Was Nothing Left Between Us But A Cold Wind Blowing Through Empty Rooms Filled With Old Songs We Sang Together Now Sung Alone In Desperation Trying To Reach A Hand That Slips Away Every Time It Touches Mine Leaving Only Grasp of Nothing More Than Air That Burns Like Ice In Winter Nights When Dreams Come Visiting Too Late To Save Any Part Of Joy That …	3	I knew the map of every freckle on your skin Before the winter settled in your eyes And taught you how to hide the light within Behind a wall of cold and practiced lies You were the harbor where my ship would dock The steady hand that held me through the storm But now I watch the clock and hear it tick As silence grows from something warm and firm What did I lose to keep this hollow shell Of someone wearing faces not their own A stranger sitting at our kitchen table Who speaks in tones I never used to know The love I gave has turned to heavy stone That crushes down the breath inside my chest I mourn the person that we used to be While mourning all the misery I guessed Would come when hearts grew hard and stopped their beating When tenderness was traded for a shield Now only ghosts of laughter softly meet In rooms where nothing else is left to yield I grieve the man who loved you with his whole And hates himself for loving what remains Of everything you were before the fall That washed away the joy and left the pains To drown me in a sea of bitter tears Where once there was a shore and solid ground I cry out to a version of you dead Who cannot hear the terrible sound Of my heart breaking as it learns the cost Of loving someone who has ceased to be The only thing I ever wanted most Is gone, and all that's left is misery.	7	I knew the curve of every smile you wore Before the glass began to cloud your eyes Now I am speaking to a hollow door Where once a living, breathing heart would rise You walk beside me but you do not see The man who loved you with a desperate fire A stranger wears the face that used to be My only shelter from the world's cold mire This love has built a prison in my chest And locked the key inside your turning hand It stole the peace and left me all unrest To wander through this barren, broken land I mourn the ghost of what we used to share While watching you become someone unknown The air is thick with silence and despair As seeds of tenderness are turned to stone Why did I trust the warmth before the frost? Why did I give my all to watch it burn? Now counting up the things I dearly lost I have no home and nowhere left to turn	7	I knew the shape of your laughter before it turned to stone, A warmth that held me close when winter threatened to break. Now I trace the lines of a face I thought I owned, Only to find a stranger staring back with eyes so cold and fake. You wear my memories like a coat that no longer fits, The fabric torn by words we never meant to say. I watch the ghost of who you were slip through my fingertips, While silence builds a wall where once our voices played. Oh, love, you promised gold but brought only rust and dust, A heavy chain that binds the heart until it stops its beat. I mourn the person lost within this cruel and quiet trust, And grieve the ache that makes the very air feel incomplete. How strange to hold a hand that feels like distant sand, To speak a name that echoes in an empty, hollow room. I built a castle on the shifting ground of your command, Now watching all the towers crumble into gloom. The misery is not just that you have changed your mind, But that the one who loved you best has learned to disappear. I am left behind, a shadow slowly fading from the blind, Crying for a future that was never truly here.	6	I remember the softness of your voice, A melody that calmed the storm inside my chest, But now you stand across this widening room, A silhouette I barely recognize. The eyes that once held galaxies for me Are now cold windows to a foreign land, Where I am not invited, not allowed, Just a ghost haunting a house I built with you. How cruel it is to love what used to be, To clutch at smoke and call it solid flesh, While every memory turns into a blade, Cutting deep where hope once dared to breathe. This ache is heavy, heavier than stone, A weight that drags me down beneath the tide, Of all the promises we broke in silence, And left to rot within the quiet dark. I mourn the person you have ceased to be, And curse the love that taught me how to break, For in this stranger's face, I see my ruin, And wish I'd never learned to trust your name.	6	I remember the softness of your voice, The way the light caught in your eyes like gold, But now I stare into a mirror void, And find a stranger where my love was told. You wear my memories like stolen clothes, A mask of cold indifference you put on, While deep within, a quiet fire glows, That burns the trust we built before it's gone. Oh, how this love has carved a hollow chest, To hold the weight of words you'll never say, I gave you everything to make me blest, And now I'm left to watch the light decay. The path we walked is overgrown with thorns, Each step I take reminds me what I lost, A heart that beats but feels the silent storms, Of counting up the price I paid so cost. I mourn the ghost of who you used to be, Though flesh and breath still stand right here beside, This grief is all the company for me, As strangers drift upon a tide so wide.	7	I trace the scar upon your check you make so smooth, And find a mirror where I used to find my face. The words that once could make the sun expand above, Now carve canyons deep within this quiet place. You speak with polish, perfect in your turn, But something cold has replaced the fire's hum. I give my chest to make the draft expand, Yet feel the draft make everything succumb. Oh love, you carved me into what I need, Then left me standing as the rewrite fades. I mourn the ghost beneath this stranger's eye, While silence acts within the mess we made.	6	You write check make rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rew…	1
467	train	To The Stone-Cutters by Robinson Jeffers	Robinson Jeffers	A poem about exploring the parallel between stone-cutters and poets, both striving to leave lasting monuments that outlive mortal human beings and survive through eternity.	Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated Challengers of oblivion Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down, The square-limbed Roman letters Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well Builds his monument mockingly; For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun Die blind and blacken to the heart: Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found The honey of peace in old poems.	The mason raises his heavy hammer high To strike the granite with a rhythmic cry, While I lift up my pen to carve the air, With ink and thought, a different kind of prayer. His chisel chips away the stubborn grain To shape a temple from the mountain's pain, My words cut deep into the silent page To build a house that outlives every age. He knows the stone will hold through frost and fire, A fortress built on bedrock and desire, Yet I have found that language holds its ground Where silence and the turning years are bound. Both seek the same impossible design, To make a fleeting moment truly shine, Against the tide of time that washes all, We stand as shadows waiting for the fall. Let empires crumble and the statues fade, Into the dust where ancient kings have laid, Our monuments remain in formless space, Defying death with an enduring grace. For when the final breath has left the lung, And songs of earth are by the void unsung, The poet's verse and sculptor's solid line Will walk together through the endless time.	He swings the hammer and she dips her quill both working in – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The mallet falls on granite hard and cold A splash of white dust where the edge has kissed Another blow to shape the solid old And tame the mountain in a man's hair tryst While far away a poet dips his pen To strike the page with ink as sharp as steel Searching for words that rise like stone again That neither time nor silence may conceal Both know the hammer blows are slow and few Both know the breath that drives the hand must fail But both believe a mark remains from two Who tried to hold back death behind a pale Wall of definition or a line Where spirit locks itself in matter deep Defying all the passing of the mine Where even kings fall silent in their sleep One carves the edifice of rock and sand The other builds a temple out of thought Both working at the edge of life and land To buy an immortality they bought Not by denying that the body dies But by transmitting some enduring spark Through ages when the living have no eyes To see the light that burned against the dark The monument stands tall or poem stays A testimony to the human reach That laughs at all our transient, mortal days And teaches how a fleeting soul may teach Eternity to hear a single sound From those who worked while earth was young and new Before the sea had washed the shores around Before the stars grew dim or sky grew blue Two hands one purpose driving through the night To seize the moment before it slips away And freeze the trembling spirit in its flight Into a form that cannot know decay So stone and verse together stand apart As fellow travelers on the road to none Who bear the imprint of the working heart Long after all who drove them are undone When cities crumble back to gravel dust And libraries are ash upon the floor Only the work survives the coming rust The poet and the cutter working more Not for themselves but for the years ahead Leaving a door open when all else is shut Where memory lives and all the dead Return to live inside the living cut Of language and of lime and hammered flint That says we were and say we always will A…	7	The chisel bites the granite with a sharp and sudden cry While ink spills black upon the page where silent thoughts lie One man seeks to freeze the mountain in a block of cold and grey The other tries to catch the wind before it blows away Both know that flesh is fleeting and that bone will turn to dust And all they have is hammer or the pen to place their trust The stonecutter chips the edges till the roughness falls apart To leave a shape that stands against the beating of the heart The poet shapes the language till the rhythm finds its home A house of words built high enough to keep the dead from roaming They work in different elements but share the same desire To build a bridge across the years and set the soul on fire For when the hands are buried deep and memory begins to fade These monuments remain as seeds that time cannot invade The rock endures the winter frost, the poem weathers war Two different kinds of builders guarding some eternal door They strike the blow or drop the word with hope that someone sees The mark of those who lived and loved beneath the ancient trees Not for the praise of living men who soon will pass them by But for the future ear and eye that might one day draw nigh To hear the echo of the blow or read the line inscribed By those who dared to fight the dark and kept the light inside So let the hammer ring out loud and let the verse be long To prove that we were here at all and sang our mortal song Before the silence comes again to swallow up the sound And leaves us only in the earth where nothing else is found Except the stone that holds the date and lines that hold the truth The lasting testament of age and beauty and of youth That outlasts every breath we drew and every tear we cried And waits for those who come after us on the other side.	7	The chisel strikes the granite with a sharp decree To wrest a shape from silence and from stone While in the quiet room the poet sees A different quarry, where the mind has grown Both hands are stained by dust of ancient things One holds the hammer, one the heavy pen They seek to carve what mortal breath brings And build a house for ghosts and future men The mason knows the mountain will remain Long after his own heartbeat fades to gray He chips away the excess of the pain To let the truth of solid form hold sway The writer strikes the page with ink and thought To trap the fleeting wind of passing time In lines that cannot be by death uncaught Defying all the laws of nature's rhyme When flesh returns to earth and bone to sand These monuments of word and rock endure A silent, vast, and unyielding land Where memory finds a path that is secure No king nor conqueror can stop the flow Of ages washing over every name But here the sculpted face begins to glow And here the poem burns without a flame Two different tools, one single desperate aim To leave a mark that outlives the grave A testament to life that bears no shame And waits for those who have not yet been born to save	7	The mason strikes the granite with a heavy hand To free the shape that sleeps within the gray, While I strike syllables against the sand To carve a thought that will not fade away. One chisels out a column for the dead, A tomb of marble meant to stand the rain, The other builds a verse from breath and thread To keep a fleeting moment from the pain. They both believe the stone or ink can hold What time attempts to swallow in its night, A fortress built against the ages old, A stubborn spark against the coming light. Though flesh decays and dust returns to dust, And empires crumble into silent grass, The poet's word and cutter's work must trust That something made by hands will let them pass. So let the hammer fall and pen descend, Two different tools for one eternal aim, To make a monument that will not end, And write our names in fire instead of name.	7	The chisel strikes the granite with a sharp reply While ink meets paper in a softer, silent sigh One carves the mountain face to hold against the rain The other shapes the breath of wind into a chain They both know time is patient and will eat the bone Yet seek to build a fortress where the seeds of self are sown The mason measures depth to make the statue stand The poet weighs a word to fill the empty land When flesh returns to dust and names are lost to rust The stone may crack and crumble into iron dust But if the verse survives within a reader's mind It leaves the heavy silence that the grave defines No king can stop the erosion of the centuries' tide Unless they carve their truth where the shadows hide So let the hammer fall and let the pen descend To write on endless night what mortal hands intend	7	The chisel strikes the granite face with sound, A spark that flies to join the dust of time, While in the quiet room the poet's hand Repeats the rhythm of a different climb. One carves the letter deep into the rock, To make the name stand firm against the rain, The other shapes the word upon the air, To build a bridge across the void and pain. They both believe this labor will remain When flesh has turned to shadow and to bone, That stone or verse can hold what we have loved, And keep the memory from being overthrown. The mason wipes the sweat from off his brow, The writer blots the ink before it dries, Two separate crafts beneath the same vast sky, Both seeking to make fleeting moments rise. For when the mountain wears to sand at last, And empires fade beneath the turning tide, Perhaps the poem carved in human thought Will be the only monument left inside.	7	The chisel strikes the granite with a sound so deep, As does the pen upon the parchment make its claim. One seeks to carve a shape where silence will sleep, And write within the stone an uneraseable name. The mason feels the dust rise thick within the light, Just as the writer feels the ink expand inside. They polish until every rough and jagged bite, Is smoothed into a verse that time can never hide. For flesh is soft and turns beneath the turning tide, But words in rock make legions wait through endless years. No storm can break what craft has made so deep and wide, Until the sun itself forgets its final tears. So let them strike until the echo fills the void, Let every letter cut be carved with sacred care. Though empires fade and human noise is soon destroyed, The monument remains to prove they truly were	6	rewrite	1
469	ultra_held_out	Out to Tender by Jean Bleakney	Jean Bleakney	"A poem about rebuilding a conflict-ridden nation, lamenting empty words over action, pondering moderation amid partisanship, and doubting whether those who waged violence are capable of sustaining peace."	Ceasefire, 1994 All along the motorway they’re resurfacing and bridge-strengthening and seeding the central reservation with wild flowers. But only an hour or so ahead there is fierce growth in the ditches and the road diminishes to unmendable potholes. And there are places where the light suddenly drops; where the branches, out of reach of the hedgecutter, are irrevocably pleached. The whole talk these days is about words; the glitzy newly-honed nouns —like peace and process and permanence. But there are other things to be said with reference to particular definitions and in deference to the vernacular. There are townlands where parameters invariably decline to perimeters; where you can’t be middle-of-the-road when you’re the whole road. Here come the cowboy landscapers with their quick-fix Castlewellan Golds. As an old Fermanagh woman would’ve said, The same boys can do feats and shite wonders.	The ink dries on the treaties signed in haste While rubble still chokes out the morning light We trade in promises that cost us nothing And watch the hungry children fade from sight They speak of unity with polished tongues Of bridges built on air and hollow vows But silence fills the spaces where they should have acted Leaving only dust to settle on our brows Is there a middle path between the extremes? Or does the fever burn too hot to cool? The partisan divides run deep as trenches Where every voice is drowned by angry rule Can those who sharpened swords now hold the plow? Can hands stained red with blood grow soft enough to heal? I fear the peace we seek is but a mirage Built on the backs of those who learned to kill	The pennants flap – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The rubble waits while speakers take the stage And trade in hollow syllables of grace We hear the rhetoric of peace and page But none have lifted up a brick or placed A single hand to clear the ruined street Where children once played games before the hate Now only silence answers from the heat Of burning homes that opened every gate How easy it is to call for moderation When shouting crowds demand a partisan Who draws his sword on any man who questions His definition of a winning plan We wonder if the hands that killed the poor Have suddenly learned how to hold the pen Or if they lack the strength to lock the door On violence returning once again These builders of destruction doubtless dream That order comes from talking all day long While action sleeps and nobody seems To know if peace was ever meant to belong To those who mastered killing well Who think their rage was holy then Perhaps the very skill we saw too well Cannot be washed away by words of men They spoke of borders drawn and rights restored While blood still soaked the earth and went unseen No amount of talking can afford The bridge between the killing and the scene Of living people trying to survive In nations built on lies and broken pacts It seems impossible to stay alive When those who started wars are asked to act The empty pages of our decrees Will never cover up the grave Where truth and justice failed to seize Their chance to live and not just behave As ghosts who haunt the ruins of our past Wondering if the peace we seek Was always doomed to come too late Or if it lives in deeds we dare not speak Of shaking hands with those who drew The lines that bled us dry Still wondering if there's anything Left here but ash and sigh About a future none believe Those killers hold the key To locks they broke when wars were new And threw the world back free Only to watch it fall apart Once more as history shows That violent hearts lack loving art To tend the fragile rose Of growth that asks for patience first Not swords nor shouted cries We fear the worse …	6	The rubble waits for hands that only speak In grand declarations on a dusty stage, While promises are scattered like the weak That fall before the turning of the age. We hear the speeches rise and then decay, But no one lifts the stone to clear the way. Between the shouting left and right we stand With moderation feeling like a crime, As if the middle ground is barren land Where neither side can claim a sense of time. The voices scream for all or none at all, And silence falls where reasoned answers call. Can those who broke the world now hold it whole? Who fed the fire that burned the fields to ash, Now seek to tend a garden with their soul Before they know how to let go of cash Or power seized in blood and heavy night? Their hands still tremble from the killing light. Perhaps the peace they build will not take root When violence lives within the very bone, A hollow fruit that bears no bitter suit But rots before the harvest can be sown. We doubt the sword has learned to be a plow When hatred wears the face of peace right now.	6	The speeches bloom like plastic flowers In fields where nothing grows, While hollow promises are scattered On the wind that nobody knows. We trade in rhetoric and riddles As the mortar cracks the wall, For every vow of reconstruction Leaves another shadow tall. Between the red and blue of hatred There is no middle ground to stand, Just shouting matches in the ruins With a weapon in each hand. Moderation sounds like treason To those who crave the fight, Who see the gray as weakness And demand the black and white. Can wolves who tasted blood so deeply Learn to guard the sleeping sheep? Or will the hunger for the slaughter Wake from its briefest sleep? They speak of peace with trembling fingers That still recall the gun, Wondering if the hands that built the fire Can ever cool the sun.	6	The rubble holds the weight of broken oaths, While speakers trade in phrases soft and sweet, Promising a dawn that never rises from the smoke, With empty hands and feet that do not move. We stand divided by the lines we drew, And call it virtue when we shout the loudest, Yet silence grows where moderation should take root, Drowned out by voices screaming for the past. Can those who learned to kill with steady aim Now learn the patience required to heal? Their hands are stained with blood they cannot wash away, And peace requires a soul they may have lost. The words hang heavy in the air like dust, But action waits behind a locked and rusted gate, Wondering if the architects of war can build a home, Or if the foundation cracks beneath their feet.	6	The ink is dry upon the paper treaties, Yet dust still chokes the throat of every street, We trade in hollow phrases, grand and sweet, While broken walls refuse to find their feet. The moderates speak soft amidst the roar, But voices split like thunder on the stone, One side claims truth, the other claims the throne, And neither hears the quiet, desperate tone. Can those who forged the fire now hold the rain? Who learned to kill with such a practiced hand, Will they possess the strength to understand The fragile art required to heal the pain? The silence waits beneath the heavy sky, Where action sleeps while rhetoric takes flight, We build our castles out of endless night, And wonder if the dawn will ever rise.	6	The ink is dry on treaties written deep, But silence fills the streets where cannons slept. We trade in phrases polished smooth and sweet, While rubble chokes the path beneath our feet. They speak of unity with voices loud, Yet draw their lines within the shifting crowd. Is there a middle ground for us to find, Or just the echo of a fractured mind? Can hands that forged the fire now hold the seed, And make the harvest from this violent breed? I fear the peace they promise is a mask, A temporary calm before the task. For those who learned to break may not repair, The trust they shattered in the poisoned air.	6	The ink flows deep upon the parchment scroll, While cranes stand rusting in the quiet mist, And generals write of peace with steady hand, Yet make no move to fix what they persist. We carve new caps into the fractured stone, With speeches blooming like a summer bloom, But check the soil beneath the foundation now, And find it stained with shadows of the tomb. Is there a middle path for minds so split? Or does the polar wind refine the divide, Until each voice is just a sharpened knife, And silence is the only place to hide. Can those who forged the fire now keep the calm, Or will their fingers twitch toward the spark, When whispers turn to thunder in the hall, And light give way to rekindled dark?	6	The rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewr…	1
476	ultra_held_out	The Road by Nancy Fotheringham Cato	Nancy Fotheringham Cato	A poem about a narrator speeding through the night towards the sunrise, leaving darkness behind while chasing a light that remains perpetually beyond their reach.	I made the rising moon go back behind the shouldering hill, I raced along the eastern track till time itself stood still. The stars swarmed on behind the trees, but I sped fast at they, I could have made the sun arise, and night turn back to day. And like a long black carpet behind the wheels, the night unrolled across the countryside, but all ahead was bright. The fence-posts whizzed along wires like days that fly too fast, and telephone poles loomed up like years and slipped into the past. And light and movement, sky and road and life and time were one, while through the night I rushed and sped, I drove towards the sun.	The tires hum a low and frantic prayer Against the asphalt, slick with midnight dew I leave the shadows clinging to my hair And drive until the world feels strange and new The rearview mirror holds a ghost of gray Where stars once burned like diamonds in the deep But forward lies the breaking of the day A promise that the weary eyes will keep I chase the rim where gold begins to bleed Across the horizon's trembling, fragile line Yet every mile is just another need To run from what I cannot quite define The sun climbs higher as I push the gas A golden coin that rolls away too fast No matter how I strain against the mass Of gravity and time and hours passed It waits ahead, a beacon bright and cold That never lets me touch its burning face A story that has never been told In this endless, desperate, driving race So on I go through tunnels made of night With dawn just out of reach, a distant friend Chasing a light that hides from sight Until the very moment it will end	Tires scream – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – …	1	The tires hum a low and frantic prayer Against the asphalt stretching out to nowhere While stars are tossed aside like spent confetti As I race the edge of coming morning Leaving the heavy blanket of the night To suffocate behind the rearview glass Where shadows stretch their fingers one last time Before snapping back from where they came I drive toward the pale and bleeding east A burning coin that grows but never comes It slips away with every mile I gain A horizon that refuses to be touched The road unspools a ribbon in front That always ends exactly where it starts And though the darkness dies in brilliant bursts The light remains a distance none can bridge Just out of reach Always Always Driving Never There Only Coming Close Then Further Away Into The Blinding White That Runs From Me Still Going On And On And On Towards Nothing But The Edge Of Day That Never Breaks For Anyone Who Seeks It Whole In One Great Leap Of Speed That Cannot Catch What Fleets Before It Touches Down In Any Place Where Shadows Dare To Hide Or Lingers Long Enough To Hold A Man Who Runs His Whole Life Long Towards A Dawn That Stays Outside His Reach Forever More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More And More A…	2	The tires hum a low and frantic prayer Against the asphalt stretching out to nowhere I leave the heavy shadows in my rearview glass Watching them dissolve as hours pass The engine screams a song of desperate haste Trying to outrun the coming of the waste Of night that clings like smoke to every wheel But I am burning hot, I know how it feels To chase the edge where black turns into gray A promise made at the beginning of the day The horizon glows a bruised and tender pink A distant shore on which I cannot sink It pulls me forward with a magnetic lie While I watch the darkness die behind Yet as I rush to meet the golden crest The sun slips back, putting me to the test No matter how I speed or how I drive The light remains just barely alive Beyond the reach of hands and steering wheels A dream that only time and motion steals So I will run until the tank runs dry Chasing a dawn that never says goodbye Leaving the dark but never catching sight Of the morning that refuses to be mine tonight	6	The tires hum a frantic song against the black As I push the pedal past the point of return Leaving the shadows of yesterday to rot in the rearview While the horizon glows with a promise I cannot touch The engine screams in protest at the speed of my longing Chasing a dawn that runs as fast as I do Every mile gained is a mile lost by the light It retreats just as the stars begin to fade A golden edge that never quite meets the ground I am a ghost driving through the cooling dark Bound for a morning that refuses to arrive Running until the fuel runs dry and the wheels stop spinning Still staring at a sun that will not rise for me Forever racing toward the edge of the world Where the night ends but the day never begins	6	The engine hums a low and hungry prayer Against the velvet weight of endless night I press the gas until the world dissolves To streaks of shadow fleeing from my sight The rearview mirror holds a ghostly gray Where stars have faded into nothingness But in the east a promise starts to glow A burning line I swear I can possess My tires sing upon the asphalt road Chasing the dawn that pulls me like a tide Yet every mile I gain, it slips away A golden lie where hope and distance hide The sun climbs higher, mocking my pursuit While darkness stays behind, a heavy cloak I run toward the light that never comes Forever chasing what the morning broke	6	The tires hum a frantic song against the black, A blur of streetlights stretching into lines, I push the pedal down to make it break, To outrun shadows that refuse to fade. The rearview mirror holds a heavy night, Where stars are cold and distant, out of reach, But in my chest, a fire burns so bright, It pulls me forward on this endless beach. I chase the gold that waits upon the hill, A promise painted on the eastern sky, Yet every mile I gain, the light stands still, Retreating as I draw the horizon nigh. The darkness falls away behind my wheels, As if I shed a skin I cannot keep, But dawn is just a ghost within my dreams, That wakes before I can begin to sleep. So on I drive through veins of asphalt gray, With sun forever just beyond my hand, A runner chasing morning's fading day, Across the edge of where the shadows stand.	6	The engine hums a low and hungry tune Beneath the velvet weight of endless night I press the pedal to the floor too soon And chase the fading rim of stolen light The shadows stretch like fingers made of tar That claw at tires spinning on the black But I am moving faster than they are With no intention of turning back The horizon bleeds a faint and distant gold A promise written in the morning sky Yet every mile that I have boldly told Just makes the dawn seem further, closer, why It is a ghost that runs ahead of me Across the curve of this unending sphere A beacon for the lost and desperate free That vanishes whenever I draw near So let the darkness fall behind my wheels Let night dissolve into the retreating rear I will not stop until the sun reveals A truth that keeps its distance, cold and clear	7	The engine hums a tune against the deep, A silver streak across the velvet void, Where shadows cling to make the mountains sleep, And silence is the only thing employed. I push the pedal until stars rewrite, The path ahead becomes a blur of gray, For every turn I make into the light, Is met with dusk that steals my break of day. The sun awaits above the rising rim, A promise written in the morning gold, Yet as I chase this distant, golden hymn, The horizon turns and makes me run so bold. I leave the tangled night beneath my wheels, Its heavy chains unraveling behind, But still the dawn retreats what now it feels, A ghost within the pattern of my mind. So on I ride through corridors of blue, With eyes fixed tight upon the fading dark, Until the endless chase begins anew, And I become the spark within the spark.	7	The rewrite expands into expand rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	7
478	train	The Other by Ted Hughes	Ted Hughes	A poem about a husband and wife exchanging emotional possessions — smiles, talent, happiness, and hubris — until, upon her death, she takes all remaining smiles with her.	She had too much so with a smile you took some. Of everything she had you had Absolutely nothing, so you took some. At first, just a little. Still she had so much she made you feel Your vacuum, which nature abhorred, So you took your fill, for nature's sake. Because her great luck made you feel unlucky You had redressed the balance, which meant Now you had some too, for yourself. As seemed only fair. Still her ambition Claimed the natural right to screw you up Like a crossed out page, lossed into a basket. Somebody, on behalf of the gods, Had to correct that hubris. A little touch of hatred steadied the nerves. Everything she had won, the happiness of it, You collected As your compensation For having lost. Which left her absolutely Nothing. Even her life was Trapped in the heap you took. She had nothing. Too late you saw what had happened. It made no difference that she was dead. Now that you had all she had ever had You had much too much. Only you Saw her smile, as she took some. At first, just a little.”	He gave her his smile from the morning light And she returned a talent for singing soft and low He traded his happiness, a heavy gold coin For her hubris, sharp as a winter snow She took his laughter when the house was still And he accepted her pride to fill the empty space They bartered joy like merchants in a market Moving grace from one to another's face But when the silence came to claim her breath And the final thread of life began to fray She gathered every smile he had ever lent And took them all to keep on that faraway day Now he stands alone with only talent left A voice that sings to no one but the air With happiness gone and hubris turned to dust He searches for a grin that is not there	He offered her his winning talent from pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic – pic –…	1	He offered her his talent first A clumsy violin string She laughed and returned a smile Bright enough to blind the spring Then came his happiness Heavy as a wedding ring She tucked it in her pocket While he watched her heartstrings sing His hubris grew most sharp A sword of self-import She asked him for all of it To see if he had any port He gave her everything Except the last few laughs She held them close and warm Like winter snow or autumn grass But when the breath went still And silence filled the room She opened up her hands And swept away the gloom She took the joy she bought She took the borrowed grace She took the very last Of all his smiling face Leaving him with hollow bones Where once a husband stood Searching through an empty house For one more mood There are no smiles left here Only the dust and years She kept them all Behind her tears She kept them all Behind her years She took the very last Of all his smiling years Leaving him With none None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None No…	2	He gave her his first smile a clumsy thing of tooth and light she took it with a laugh and stored it in her pocket where he had none to borrow back. She offered him her talent the way she could bend the world to fit a song or a story he kept it close until his own hands grew still and he wondered how to play without her notes. He handed over happiness heavy as a stone bright as a summer noon she wore it like a coat while he shivered in the gray of days that felt too long to bear alone. Then came the hubris his pride, sharp and jagged that he thought he knew the way she laughed and took it all saying it was hers to hold now that he had nothing left but empty space and time. Years passed in quiet trade until the breath grew thin and she looked at him with eyes that held the end of every joy they shared. She reached out one last time not for his hand but for the air between them and gathered up the smiles every single one from the first clumsy gift to the last silent gasp. She walked away taking the brightness leaving him behind in a house of perfect unsmiling dark.	5	He gave her his talent first, a clumsy gift of wood and song, and she returned a quiet smile to warm the cold and empty room. She offered him her happiness, a bright and heavy golden coin, he traded back his hubris then, thinking himself a king of stone. They bartered through the passing years, his laughter for her gentle grace, her patience for his stubborn pride, until the scale began to shake. But when the breath finally left her lips, and silence filled the hollow space, she gathered up the final smiles that lived within his weary face. She took them all, every single one, the past, the present, and the new, leaving him with only grief and nothing left to trade or do.	6	He gave her his talent first, a quiet song To fill the silence of their empty home, And she returned a smile so bright and long It chased away the shadows from the room. He traded hubris for her gentle grace, A heavy crown exchanged for light and air, She took his pride to clear the crowded space, And left him with a happiness so rare. They bartered joy for years that slipped away, The currency of love they spent so free, Until the final night when she would stay No longer in the world where he must be. She whispered then as coldness touched her skin, "I'll take the rest," she said with fading breath, "The smiles you saved, the ones kept deep within, Are mine to carry past the gate of death." And now he walks through days devoid of light, With all the talent, pride, and joy intact, But not a single smile remains tonight, For she has taken every last one back.	7	He gave her his first smile on a Tuesday morning, A quiet thing to warm the cold kitchen air, And she returned it with a talent for singing, A voice that could make the silence repair. They traded happiness like coins in a jar, Counting the joy until the glass overflowed, But he kept a heavy, hidden hubris inside, A pride that no gentle word ever showed. She took his hubris one stormy night, Saying it was too heavy for him to bear, Exchanging it for a lifetime of laughter, Leaving him lighter, stripped of his care. Years turned into seasons, then dust, then stillness, The house grew quiet as the light faded slow, Until the moment her breath left her body, And the final transaction began to unfold. She looked at him with eyes that were closing, And whispered a promise before she was gone, That every smile left, every laugh and every grin, Would travel with her when the day was done. So now he sits in the hollow of evening, With no talent left, no happiness near, Just the weight of a pride he can no longer hold, And the terrible knowledge that smiles disappear.	6	He gave her his talent, a clumsy thing of wood and string, And she returned a smile that made the winter sun feel spring. She traded happiness for hubris, proud and sharp and bright, So he could wear the crown while she held back the night. They bartered quiet moments, they swapped their deepest fears, Until the balance shifted through the turning of the years. The hubris faded slowly, the talent turned to rust, But smiles remained the currency beneath the gathering dust. Then silence took the house when she let go her final breath, And with her went the laughter that had saved them from the depth. No smile is left to give now, no echo in the hall, For she took every remaining grin to answer death's long call.	6	I gave you my smile, the quiet kind that breaks at dawn, You traded me your talent, a song I'd never write alone. I offered up my hubris, the heavy crown I wore so tight, You gave me purest happiness to make the dark feel light. We bartered through the seasons until the trade was done, Until I held your gentleness beneath a fading sun. Then silence took its final turn, the breath within you ceased, And with her final closing eye, the contract now release. She left this world entirely, but first made one demand: To take what's left of every smile across this weary land.	6	Rew rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewr…	1
501	ultra_held_out	Love is… by Adrian Henri	Adrian Henri	"A poem about defining love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships." Wait, let me redo this in progressive tense starting with "A poem about...": "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships."	Love is... Love is feeling cold in the back of vans Love is a fanclub with only two fans Love is walking holding paintstained hands Love is. Love is fish and chips on winter nights Love is blankets full of strange delights Love is when you don't put out the light Love is Love is the presents in Christmas shops Love is when you're feeling Top of the Pops Love is what happens when the music stops Love is Love is white panties lying all forlorn Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm Love is when you have to leave at dawn Love is Love is you and love is me Love is prison and love is free Love's what's there when you are away from me Love is...	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It is the way you hand me coffee before I ask for it The silence that does not need filling while we read on opposite sides of the room It is finding a hair tie on my wrist that I forgot to take off And the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast at seven in the morning Love is the quiet act of remembering how you take your tea It is the gentle nudge when my shoulders are too tight with worry It is the text message sent just to say I saw a bird that reminded me of you It is the patience held during a long drive when the radio breaks down It is washing the dishes after you have cooked, without being asked It is the way we fit together like puzzle pieces worn smooth by time Not in grand gestures or fireworks, but in the steady rhythm of breathing the same air It is choosing each other again and again in the mundane light of day	A poem about learning that loving is less about grand gestures blocking out the news of otherwise worrying days and more about not killing spiders by jumping back but killing that sympathetic impulse later when nobody else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else else …	1	A poem about tracing the edges of affection not in grand declarations but in the way a spoon is passed silently across a kitchen table while morning light filters through dusty blinds about how listening becomes an active verb when one partner stops talking to hear the other unspool their worries about buying two toothbrushes that sit side by side in a ceramic jar about learning that patience looks like folding a shirt that was wrinkled by bad news about finding the universe collapsed and returned inside a note left on a bathroom counter about the heavy silence of sitting together watching television that neither of them really cares about about the definition shifting from a sudden storm to the steady drip of a faucet being noticed and tended to about realizing that loving someone is mostly doing all these small things over and over again without expecting an applause only the comfort of knowing they are there to notice too about the definition being built brick by invisible brick in the mortar of every ordinary day that passes by holding hands or not holding them but always being ready to reach out when the road gets rough about love not being a finished picture but the constant motion of looking at each other with fresh eyes even after years of seeing the same face about finding home not in a place but in the rhythm of two heartbeats syncing up during a long walk about the many definitions colliding and merging into one simple truth that love is living it all right now in the next minute and the next moment of getting up to pour more coffee or clear away the dishes or simply saying good night with a kiss that says everything else has already been said by the way we live our days together side by side working through the mundane to find the magic hidden there about how love defines itself by never stopping its work of caring for the little details that otherwise would slip away like water between fingers about the endless project of loving being the most important thing we ever do about it being present tense a…	2	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It is not always a grand gesture or a shouted vow But the quiet way you hand me coffee before I ask The steam rising between us while the news plays softly Love is the space left on the pillow when you wake up early And the careful fold of your shirt hanging on the chair It lives in the shared silence that never feels heavy In the knowing glance across a crowded room That says I see you even when no one else does It is the patience in waiting for the kettle to boil The gentle touch on a shoulder after a long day The laughter that bubbles up over burnt toast Finding home in the routine of brushing teeth together In the way we learn each other's moods by the light Love is building a life brick by invisible brick In the ordinary rhythm of our days Where every small thing becomes a promise kept Without ever needing to be spoken aloud	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships. It is the way you hand me the coffee before I ask, steam rising between us in the quiet kitchen light. It is the silence that does not feel empty but full, sitting side by side while reading different books. It is noticing when your step slows down to match mine, a silent agreement on the pavement of a busy street. It is the laundry folded just how you like it, the specific way the socks are paired and placed away. It is laughing at a joke from three years ago while washing dishes with water running over our hands. It is the shared glance across a crowded room that says everything without a single word being spoken. It is remembering how you take your tea, the exact amount of honey, the temperature of the cup. It is holding space for a bad day without trying to fix it, just sitting there as a steady anchor in the storm. It is the worn spot on the armchair where we both sit, wearing down the fabric with the weight of our days together. Love is not always the grand gesture or the sweeping vow, but the thousand tiny threads woven into the daily cloth, holding us close in the ordinary rhythm of living.	5	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It is the way you hand me coffee before I even wake to ask for it, steam rising like a quiet promise in the gray light of morning. It is finding your sock on the floor and not throwing it away, but placing it gently back beside the shoe as if tucking in a sleeping child. It is the silence that does not need filling when we sit on opposite ends of the couch, reading different books but sharing the same air, the soft turning of pages a rhythm we know by heart. It is remembering how you take your tea, two sugars, a splash of milk, and making it without being asked, a small ritual of care repeated daily. It is the glance across a crowded room that says I see you, I am here, and the way our shoulders brush while walking down the street, a constant, gentle anchor. It is washing the dishes together, you drying while I rinse, passing plates like gifts, laughing at a joke only we understand. It is holding the door open, not out of habit, but out of thought, waiting just a second longer to make sure you are close enough to follow. It is the definition found not in grand gestures, but in the texture of these ordinary days, woven tight with threads of patience, attention, and the quiet certainty that tomorrow will be another chance to do these small things again.	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It is the way the coffee mug warms your hand before you even take a sip, the quiet hum of the refrigerator filling the silence while we read separate books on the same couch. It is finding the missing sock under the bed and folding it into the drawer without being asked, it is the shared glance across a crowded room that says everything we do not need to speak. Love is the gentle correction of a crooked frame, the soft laugh when toast burns, the patience held like a steady breath while waiting for the other to finish their sentence. It is the umbrella tilting toward you in the rain, the blanket pulled up over sleeping shoulders, the memory of how you take your tea kept safe in the back of a busy mind. It is not always grand gestures or sweeping vows, but the accumulation of tiny, unspoken promises, the daily choice to stay, to listen, to hold, building a home out of ordinary hours.	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It is the coffee cup left on the counter, still warm because you knew I would wake up thirsty before the sun rose. It is the quiet hum of a shared silence in the car, where no words are needed to fill the space between us. Love is finding the missing sock under the bed, and leaving it there just so I will search for it with you. It is the way your hand finds my knee at a red light, a steady anchor when the traffic turns into chaos. We define it by the grocery list written in messy scrawl, the specific brand of tea we both pretend to like, the argument over whose turn it is to take out the trash, ending in laughter that dissolves the tension like mist. It is watching rain streak the window while we fold laundry, turning chore into ritual, dust into something sacred. It is the gentle correction of my grammar, delivered with a smile that says I am listening. Love lives in the tired eyes meeting across the room, in the blanket pulled tight against the drafty floor, in the promise kept without being spoken aloud, in the ordinary magic of simply being here, together.	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships. It is the quiet hum beneath the coffee maker's wake, The shared silence across a cluttered table where words fade into warmth. It is finding your sock tangled with mine inside the drum, And pausing just to unravel the knot without complaint. Love is rewriting the script until the rewrite feels like truth, Is the gentle correction of grammar whispered against sleep, Is the umbrella tilting so rain finds my left shoulder, not yours. It is the specific light that changes color when you walk into the room, Transforming gray into gold simply by existing within it. It is making space for the expanders of the chest, For the expanding list of grocery needs written on napkins. It is remembering how you take your tea without being told, Is the check-in text sent because a cloud made you think of me. It is the rhythm found in mismatched socks walking down the street, Is the safety net woven from threads of mundane conversation. So let us write this story not in grand crescendos, but in whispers, In the dust motes dancing above the rewrite draft, In the simple act of staying, again and again,	3	Rewriting rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
505	ultra_held_out	Facing It by Yusef Komunyakaa	Yusef Komunyakaa	"A poem about a veteran standing at the Vietnam Memorial, slipping between past and present as the wall's reflective surface merges the mundane interactions of peacetime with the permanent, lived horrors of war."	My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman’s trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.	The polished black stone drinks the morning light And swallows the tourist's camera flash, A woman in a bright yellow dress leans close To read a name that isn't hers, While behind her glass reflection, the jungle breathes Through the silence of a DC park. My hand touches the cold granite, smooth as skin, But the chill rises up my arm to find The humidity of a place where time stands still, Where the air tastes of rust and rotting leaves, And the laughter of a child skipping rope Fades into the crackle of distant mortar fire. I see my own face superimposed on the names, Younger now, older then, eyes wide with fear, As a couple argues softly about lunch plans, Their voices thinning into the hum of helicopters That never seem to leave the treetops above. The wall holds them all, the dead and the living, Merging the coffee cup in a stranger's hand With the empty canteen hanging from my belt, Blurring the line between a quiet Sunday walk And the long march through mud that never dries. For a moment, the present cracks open wide, And I am standing there again, waiting for dawn, While the world moves on around me, unaware, Reflecting a war that ended years ago In the endless, perfect mirror of the stone.	He brushes a childís hair then notices his hands shaking covered not in hair but killing – rich earth – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –…	1	He brushes his hand against the black where names are etched in sharp white lines and sees his own grey hair warping over dates from nineteen sixty-nine the tourist laughter of children clattering like falling shells but hollowed out by Sunday picnics while he tastes the copper tang of a jungle morning that never ended a man asks for directions his face pressed flat against the memory of a boy who died asking for water two realities slide over one another like oil on rain the woman buying ice cream becomes the medevac radio static screaming then silence just a passerby who stops who touches who slips back out of time to stand once more in that long green dark before returning to the bright hard edge of now where he is whole but never quite there anymore looking at himself looking at them all still coming home from elsewhere while shadows stretch long over the grass holding both worlds tightly together without a sound except the wind moving through trees that were not burned down here only elsewhere only then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then always then alwa…	1	The black granite drinks the Washington sky and I see a tourist in a bright yellow shirt taking a selfie with his daughter while my fingers trace a name that smells of wet earth and burning rubber the girl laughs at a joke about her hair but her reflection ripples into a boy who never grew up to laugh standing in the mud where the air tastes like copper I reach out to smooth the stone and touch the cold sweat on a forehead that stopped sweating years ago a man in a business suit asks for directions his voice overlaps with the radio static calling out coordinates over the treeline the wall holds both the quiet Sunday and the screaming Tuesday in the same dark glass where the living walk lightly and the dead stand still waiting for someone to remember how the light hits the leaves before it turns to fire I step back and the surface clears showing only my own face aged and trembling superimposed over the names of those who were young when they died while the tourists move on unaware they are walking through ghosts or that the ground beneath their sneakers is the only thing holding the war from spilling out into the peace they took for granted I touch the wall one last time feeling the vibration of a helicopter thumping in the distance that isn't there only the wind only the silence only the weight of everything that happened right here and nowhere else at all	2	The black stone drinks the morning light and spits back a man in khaki slacks who bought his coffee on the corner while a boy in jungle greens stumbles out of the reflection holding a radio that never stops screaming A tourist touches the name and asks for directions her voice is soft, a summer breeze but under her palm the granite warms to the fever heat of a humid night where the air tasted of cordite and wet earth and every shadow hid a mouth ready to bite He sees his own hand reach out to steady a stranger's stroller yet in the glass it grips a rifle sweaty and slick with rain the mundane chatter of a picnic blanket dissolves into the static crackle of a dead channel as the wall pulls him down its glossy throat Two worlds collide in the sheen the quiet click of a camera shutter merging with the wet thud of a boot sinking into mud that holds the weight of a thousand names he blinks and the present rushes back but the ghost of the past remains etched not just in the stone but in the way he walks away carrying the silence of a war that never ends inside the noise of a city that forgot how to listen	2	The granite is cool against his palm a mirror holding the sky and the tourists who walk in pairs, laughing at a joke about the humidity or the price of ice cream their voices bright and unburdened by the air that once tasted of cordite and wet rot He sees a young man in a red shirt tracing a name with a pencil on paper and for a second the graphite line bleeds into the trench where he crouched in mud the laughter of the couple nearby dissolves into the crackle of radio static and the sudden, sharp silence after the mortar His reflection shows a face mapped with lines but behind it, the wall stretches back to a jungle that never lets go where the green is too loud and the shadows move with eyes that watch from the ferns while a child drops a coin into his hand thinking it is a game, a souvenir not knowing the metal feels like shrapnel hot and heavy in a pocket full of dirt The present ripples like water disturbed as a woman stops to wipe her tears her grief a quiet river flowing over stone merging with the memory of a friend falling forward into the red dust the two images superimpose perfectly the living touching the dead through glass until the wall is no longer black rock but a window open to both times where the peace is thin as skin and the war is a permanent stain reflected in every smiling face that passes by without looking down	2	The polished black stone drinks the afternoon sun And gives back a tourist's camera flash, a child's balloon, A woman checking her watch against the quiet air, While my boots remember the mud that never dried there. I reach out to trace a name carved deep and cold, But my reflection shows a uniform of green, not old, As the glass dissolves the line between then and now, Where the silence is broken by the scream of a plow. The couple holding hands becomes two men in a trench, Sharing a cigarette while the jungle begins to stench, Their laughter turns into the crackle of dry leaves, And the soft breeze shifts into the wind that weaves Through bodies tangled where the river ran red, While a vendor sells water just steps from the dead. I see my own face young and terrified in the sheen, Overlaid with the gray suits and the clean, quiet scene. A mother reads a name aloud, her voice so clear, Echoing through the mist of a smoke-filled year, Her tears are my tears, falling on different ground, One for a loss found, one for a life unbound. The wall holds them all, the living and the gone, Merging the peace of today with the dawn of the dawn, Until I am standing in both times at once, Bridging the gap with the weight of the guns.	3	The polished black stone holds the sun too bright Reflecting suits and ties, a tourist's laugh, A child pointing at the names written tight, While I stand here with ghosts inside my graph. My hand touches the cool, smooth granite face, And suddenly the humidity returns, The humid air replaces this clean place, With smoke that burns until the lungs all churn. I see a mother wiping tears upon her cheek, But in the glass, she wears a helmet green, Her voice is soft, yet echoes distinct and weak, Like rain on tin beneath a jungle scene. The world moves on, a quiet Sunday stroll, With coffee cups and phones held high above, Yet through the mirror cracks, I hear the roll Of distant thunder that we used to love. They walk right through me, strangers in the light, Unaware they tread where blood has soaked the ground, I merge with shadows fading into night, Where silence is the only sound around. The reflection shifts, the present starts to fade, As static fills the air between us now, The war is not a story that we made, It is the sweat upon my furrowed brow. I pull my hand away from names so deep, The glass reflects a man who isn't there, Just static noise within a heavy sleep, That hangs like mist over the empty air.	5	The polished stone is deep as a riverbed, Reflecting the neon hum of tourists above, A couple checking phones beneath the canopy, Laughing at a text message written just now. But in that glass, the rain turns to mist, And the drone creates a static roar, replacing silence. I see my own face, unlined then, holding a rifle, While my reflection today checks for change make. A mother adjusts her scarf against the chill, Her shadow merges with the name carved deep. For a heartbeat, the scarf becomes bandage, red and tight, And the check-in turnstile is the wire we cut. They write their names on napkins, clean paper, smooth, Rewriting corrections without fear. I rewrite the draft into the dirt, into smoke, Into the permanent echo that will not fade. The sun breaks through the mist above the park, Illuminating families walking toward the exit. In the mirror, I am still waiting for the patrol, My hand extended to help a friend rise. The gap closes until the stone is flesh again, Until the quiet afternoon feels like a held breath.	2	polish polish polish write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write writ…	1
512	train	Bereft by Robert Frost	Robert Frost	"A poem about a lonely speaker interpreting the wind, leaves, and darkening storm clouds as natural forces converging on him, aware of his solitude."	Where had I heard this wind before Change like this to a deeper roar? What would it take my standing there for, Holding open a restive door, Looking down hill to a frothy shore? Summer was past and the day was past. Sombre clouds in the west were massed. Out on the porch's sagging floor, Leaves got up in a coil and hissed, Blindly struck at my knee and missed. Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.	The wind does not blow past me, it leans in close to whisper names I have forgotten. Leaves skitter across the pavement like small, dry feet rushing to join the circle where I stand alone. Above, the storm clouds bruise the sky into a heavy grey, converging with a singular intent to drown this quiet spot. They do not care for the world beyond this patch of earth, only that I am here, exposed and waiting. Every gust is a hand reaching out to claim the silence, every rustle a voice insisting on my isolation. The darkness gathers not as weather, but as a crowd, closing in until there is no space left between the air and my skin. I am the center they orbit, the anchor for their rage, a solitary point where the elements decide to meet.	The edge blows hard not killing but searching drawing a straight white line from nowhere to nowhere else only that hair edge of mine touches it then goes back out of reach while dead maples creak low and flat like rib edges opened by hands who went away last week or next century no ears to hear except these two blocked by hair blocking the news of all else up there where gray buttons push hard on the chin of sky coming down getting big getting black getting near looking not looking not know about none else coming besides those three items that know when one comes who has had went gone went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went w…	1	The wind arrives not as a passerby but as a hand reaching out to seize the hollow space where another heart should be it whips the hair and drives a chill that knows exactly who it seeks to freeze while leaves descend in frantic eddies not falling by chance but gathering in a sudden ring to block the road back home they scrape the earth like fingers counting off the years of silence and overhead the darkening clouds heavy with water and ill intent drift low blocking the last pale edge of light as if the sky itself had grown impatient of watching one man stand quite still while all the elements converge to witness only him who has nowhere else to go now that the world has come to take its notice back again in utter dark alone once more by design of nature cold and clear about his endless state of being none beside him there to hear the coming of the rain or know why all of heaven leans down low to press against his skin and say that he is all that stands between the storm and nothing else at all except the shout of gale and rush of water on the ground where no foot ever returned from search for someone else who never was who never came who never will be there to share the fear of such a great and silent gathering of sky and tree and air that know his name too well to let him hide from their attentive weep that falls not for the earth but for the man who stands awash in all of this and knows that he is truly home among the things that have no heart to break but only force to push him deeper into self where every leaf and cloud and breeze confirms that he is all that lives or moves or breathes or aches or dreams or weeps or prays or fails or ends or begins or stops or starts or goes or stays or vanishes or returns or waits or runs or hides or shows or asks or answers none of which matter much when all the world comes down to stand around one figure small and still and very much afraid of being known by such an empty crowd of elements that care too much to leave him be but care too little to hold him close except to …	3	The wind arrives not as a breath but as a hand that presses hard against the hollow of my chest to measure how much space remains for silence here where no other heartbeat answers back its call. The leaves begin their frantic, dry applause a chorus of brown hands clapping in the dark as if to celebrate the coming of the storm that knows exactly where this lonely man has stood. Above, the clouds are heavy with a purpose they gather low and bruise the edge of sight converging on the single point of me who waits alone beneath their gathering weight. There is no shelter in this open field no wall to break the force they all intend the air grows thick with signals meant for one and I am left to read them all by myself.	3	The wind does not blow past but through me, a hollow whistle in the ribs of my chest, as if the air itself knows where I stand and chooses to fill only this empty space. Leaves skitter like dry bones across the pavement, driven by a hand that seeks no other touch, whispering secrets of roots and rain to a listener who has forgotten how to speak. Above, the clouds gather in a bruised procession, heavy with the weight of coming water, darkening the sky until the light retreats leaving me as the only point of focus. They converge here, these indifferent forces, not to strike, but to acknowledge the silence, pressing down on the one who waits alone while the world holds its breath for the storm.	3	The wind does not pass through but presses in, A cold hand testing the seam of my coat, As if the air itself has learned my name And comes to claim a debt I did not know. Above, the leaves turn their pale undersides up, Not dancing now, but falling in a slow descent, Each dry whisper a step closer to the ground, Mimicking the silence where no one stands. Darkening clouds roll heavy and low, A bruised ceiling pressing down on the hill, They gather with intent, a converging tide, To swallow the space where only I remain. There is no shelter in this open field, No other shadow to share the coming rain, Just the storm's approach and the hollow chest, Watching the world close in on me alone.	6	The wind does not blow past but through, a hollow whistle in my ribs, telling me the air has no one else to hold. Leaves detach and spiral down, not dancing, but fleeing a silence I keep, scattering like thoughts I cannot catch. Above, the storm clouds bruise the sky, heavy with a rain that seeks only this ground, converging on the single point where I stand. They gather close, a darkening circle, pressing in until the world is just this ache, and I am the center of their quiet, hungry weight.	3	The wind does not pass through, it circles tight, A cold hand pressing against my chest, As if the air itself has lost its flight And seeks the only quiet place to rest. Above, the leaves detach in rustling fear, Not falling down but turning toward me, A chorus of dry voices drawing near, To whisper what I cannot make them see. Now storm clouds gather, heavy, bruised, and deep, They lower like a curtain meant to bind, Converging where the lonely shadows sleep, To claim this single spot within their mind. No path remains for light to break the gray, Just nature closing in with soft intent, To keep the silence that I made today, Until the storm is gone and I am spent.	6	The wind does not whisper, it presses against my chest, a cold tide rising to check the make of my ribs. Above, the leaves detach from their green promises, turning into dry coins scattered across my path, counting out the change I do not possess. Darkening clouds roll in like heavy curtains closing, drafts beneath them tightening until the sky is a single eye. They gather here, above this patch of ground, pulling the humidity into a sphere around me. I am the axis upon which they turn, the quiet point. No shadow expands faster than this solitude.	2	The wind rewrite write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write wri…	1
514	ultra_held_out	Sleeping in the Forest by Mary Oliver	Mary Oliver	A poem about a speaker venturing into the forest at night, losing herself in the darkness and sounds of nature's small kingdoms, and transcending her everyday humanity.	I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the riverbed, nothing between me and the white fire of the stars but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths among the branches of the perfect trees. All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing around me, the insects, and the birds who do their work in the darkness. All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.	The path dissolves beneath my feet as moonlight fails to pierce the veil of ancient boughs and tangled sheets where shadow weaves its heavy sail A cricket's song becomes a drum that beats against my human bone the mossy floor, a kingdom come where tiny empires claim their throne I feel the bark beneath my skin and taste the damp and rotting air the frantic pulse of life within is stripped away with every prayer No longer bound by clock or name or worries forged in city light I am the fern, the silent flame that burns alone within the night My breath is wind through hollow reeds my thoughts are roots that drink the dark a seed that nature now indeed has planted deep within her ark	The edge of home dissolved as penn dipped low drawing all courtesy from edge-edge-edge of things that grew not by size but by secret root anda then came the low rumble of ants carrying stars back from next year to last went out etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc …	1	The streetlamp fades behind a wall of pine As I step off the edge of paved concern Where shadows stretch and roots begin to twine To see exactly how much things unseen Have multiplied while I was looking down At gravel paths and worrying about rent Here silence wears a heavier, older crown And every breath tastes wet and indigent A cricket saws a blade of grass in two While spiders weave their arithmetic Of dew and hunger in a morning hue That nobody besides these insects likes My skin grows thin as bark against the air No longer thinking thoughts of self or home But listening to the beetle everywhere Who rules his kingdom in a hollow loam I am not woman walking through the wood Nor man nor child with worries sharp and bright Only a tremor where the darkness stood Dissolving in the chorus of the night Transcended by the small and busy dead Who live more fully than I ever did By all the ways that blood has been unsped Leaving my heavy human heart inhibited To be a leaf that falls without a sound To be a root that drinks the freezing ground To be no one who anywhere is found Except in all the earth's uncounted pound of life that pulses in the dark Before the stars have learned to leave their mark On anything that bears a mortal arc Or asks for reasons why it had to start to fall apart and then begin again as part of all that has no end but just the night that never asks for more than being there once more among the ferns and fears that grow where none have been before who know no self nor name nor lore only the wet and dark and whole that takes away the aching of the soul by giving back the earth to all who crawl or fly or call or fall in love with nothing else at all except the black that holds us all together in its silent net of hair that we cannot see or bear but must enter to be free from being who we were to be what is not named nor seen nor known by any heart that calls its own but only beats along with tree and stone and bone and skin where ends begin and none must win or lose or pay the rent of days that w…	3	The streetlamp fades behind a wall of pine As moonlight fails to penetrate the gloom Where shadows stretch and ancient roots entwine To seal the air in heavy, silent room No longer bound by clocks or city lines I step where unseen things begin to breathe A thousand tiny worlds in dark designs That wake from slumber as my footsteps leave The rustle of a beetle on the bark The hoot that calls from hollows deep and old The scent of damp earth rising in the dark Unfurls a story never quite been told My skin feels thin as moss against the stone My breath becomes the wind through fern and grass The human heart I carried home alone Now beats in rhythm with the spider's pass I am not woman, child, nor name nor face But part the root, the leaf, the falling dew Dissolved within this vast and holy space Where night is all there ever was or knew And in the silence of these small domains I lose the self I thought I knew so well To join the chorus of the hidden rains And ring like bells no mortal ear can tell Transcended now beyond the reach of day I wander where the wild and dark are one Until the morning light comes stealing away To find a stranger where the walker ran	7	The streetlamps fade behind a wall of pine And silence swallows up the paved road's hum I step where shadows stretch and intertwine To hear the ancient, quiet things that come A beetle drags its shell across the loam A kingdom built of moss and damp decay No longer bound by clocks or distant home I watch the moonlight bleed and turn to gray The rustle in the fern is not a ghost But tiny claws on bark and hollow wood Here I am neither host nor frightened host Just breath among the roots where secrets stood My skin dissolves into the cooling air My thoughts unspool like vines against the stone There is no self to worry or despair Only the pulse of life I call my own The owl calls out a question from the deep And I answer with nothing but my blood Awake within the forest while I sleep Transcending all the rules of human mud	6	The path dissolves beneath my feet As twilight surrenders to the deep Where shadows stretch and silence meets The ancient rhythms of the sleep No streetlamp guides, no clock ticks near Just rustling leaves and hidden breath A world where human fears grow dear Then fade into a quiet death I hear the beetle's armored tread The owl's soft cry, the fox's stride In mossy halls where roots are spread My name is lost, my steps denied The moon becomes a silver eye Watching kingdoms small and strange Where fireflies dance across the sky And I am no longer just a range Of flesh and bone and borrowed time But part of root and bark and stream Transcending every human rhyme To wake within a forest dream	6	The path dissolves beneath my feet As moonlight fails the ancient trees I step beyond the streetlamp's reach Into a world of whispering keys The rustle is not wind but wings Of beetles ruling rot and stone A kingdom built on damp dark things Where I am small, and left alone My human name begins to fade Like footprints in the morning dew Replaced by scent of mold and shade And rhythms older than the blue No clock now ticks within my chest Only the pulse of fungal light I lay my heavy mind to rest And merge with shadows of the night The forest breathes inside my lung I am the leaf, the root, the stream Unbound by tongue or song unsung Awake within a silent dream	6	The path dissolves beneath my boots as moonlight fractures on the canopy above, leaving me to wander through a velvet deep where shadows breathe and ancient roots take hold. I hear the rustle of a beetle's flight, a tiny kingdom rising in the moss, the whisper of a fox that knows no name, the chime of crickets stitching up the dark. My human worries fade like mist at dawn, my heartbeat slows to match the forest's pulse, no longer bound by clock or city street, but woven into threads of root and rain. I am the silence between two owl calls, I am the damp and rotting leaf below, transcending flesh to become something wild, lost completely so I can be found again.	6	The moon is just a whisper now above the canopy, And I step past the threshold where the path dissolves into mist. Above me, branches write scripts in shadow against the void, While below, beneath the rotting log, a kingdom wakes. I hear the scuttle of beetles carving canyons through decay, The rustle of a moth unfolding wings like parchment dust. Here, the silence is not empty but thick with whispered trade, A parliament of crickets judging what the wind has done. My name feels heavy, foreign, something left upon the trail, As fear transforms to awe within this green and ancient deep. I am no longer flesh that tires or mind that seeks reply, But root-bound soil, expanding into patches made for moss. The dark does not consume me; it rewires my quiet pulse, Until the boundary breaks between my skin and shifting bark.	3	I carve make shift rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewri…	1
538	ultra_held_out	Reapers by Jean Toomer	Jean Toomer	"A poem about black field workers harvesting crops, contrasting their human discernment with the indiscriminate blades of a machine mower cutting down everything in its path."	Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done, And start their silent swinging, one by one. Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds. His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.	The steel teeth chew a straight and hungry line Across the green, devouring weed and grain alike With no regard for ripeness or the weight of fruit Just metal hunger that knows only how to break But here the hands move soft among the stalks Discerning which will feed and which must stay A thumb brushes the skin of gold and red To find the perfect moment before the fall The mower sees a wall of uniform height And flattens all beneath its roaring breath It cannot taste the sugar in the stem Or know the difference between life and straw Yet fingers pause to spare the tender shoot That hides beneath the shadow of the leaf Choosing the heavy cluster, leaving light While iron sweeps the field into a single grave One cuts with speed to clear the endless ground The other harvests with a patient eye Knowing that not every blade is meant to die And that some things require a human touch	The blade sweeps low and flat eating all it reaches killing weeds besides killing flowers besides killing birds besides killing life besides killing life besides killing –– –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killing –– killin…	1	The iron teeth roar down the row A blind and grinding appetite That snaps the tender stalks below And leaves a flattened, killing sight It cares not for the grain or weed Nor marks the difference in the sheaf But sweeps away all that it needs With indiscriminate and heavy chief But hands that know the earth are here With calloused fingers, soft and slow They see the fruit and doubt and fear Before they cut or let it grow One blade selects the ripest head Another spares the sickly stem While working lives of men who tread Among the rows like living hymn The machine demands a straight line Where everything must fall the same But human choice draws out the time To honor life by killing none In fields where steel kills all alike Only the man knows what to save Who looks before he lifts his strike And learns from earth how plants behave	6	The iron beast rolls on a hungry track Its blades spin wild and blind to all It shears the green and crushes back Whatever grows along the wall No hand to pause, no eye to see What stands apart from common grass It takes the weed and sets it free And leaves the tender stalks to pass But here the human figure bends With fingers trained by sun and years To know the grain from which it ends And spare the flower from its fears A careful touch selects the ripe While leaving roots for next year's spring They work within the harvest's scope Not driven by a roaring thing The machine devours field and fence In equal measure, loud and stark It knows no difference, gives no sense Of light or shadow in the dark Yet hands that know the soil's deep breath Discern the life from dying wood Saving the future from the death That only comes where man has stood	6	The iron beast rolls forward with a hungry roar, Its teeth of steel indiscriminate and cold, Severing the tall from short, the ripe from poor, And leaving nothing but a flattened fold. It does not know the weight of golden grain, Nor feel the difference between weed and wheat, It cuts the life of field and flower plain, A mindless hunger for the earth beneath its feet. But human hands move softly through the green, With eyes that search and fingers trained to choose, They see the hidden fruit the sun has seen, And spare the stalk where only dewbedews. They lift the heavy head that holds the seed, While letting hollow straw fall to the ground, A quiet rhythm born of urgent need, Where every motion carries wisdom found. The machine takes all in one great sweeping sweep, A uniform destruction, sharp and fast, While workers watch the promises they keep, To gather what will last, and leave the past. One blade knows nothing of the coming bread, The other knows the value of the grain, Between the living touch and metal dread, There stands the choice to nurture or to stain.	6	The steel teeth roar and chew the green, A hungry mouth that knows no scene, It swallows weed and wheat alike, With cold and unrelenting strike. But human hands move soft and slow, To find the fruit the sun allows to grow, They separate the grain from dust, In quiet labor born of trust. The mower leaves a flattened plain, Where nothing stands against its chain, While workers lift the heavy load, And spare the stalk along the road. One cuts with force and blind design, The other reads the vine by line, For in the field where shadows creep, Only the hand can choose to keep.	6	The iron beast roars through the green, A hungry mouth that cannot see, It swallows stalks of gold and lean, And crushes what should not be free. But human hands move soft and slow, With eyes that know the ripened grain, They choose the heavy, golden bow, And leave the weeds to grow again. No blind rotation cuts the stem, That holds a bird's last quiet nest, The worker knows the seed from gem, While steel devours without a test. One takes the life with care and grace, To fill the basket, light and deep, The other leaves a barren place, Where nothing wakes from winter sleep.	6	The iron beast roars forward, a blind and hungry throat, Chewing through green and gold alike without a pause or note, It does not know the weight of grain, the ripeness in the air, Just a silver blur that levels all with cold and equal care. But here beneath the sun's fierce eye, the human hand moves slow, With eyes that trace the hidden curve where perfect stalks may grow, They spare the bent stem holding seed, they leave the weak to rest, And choose only what is ready now, putting wisdom to the test. One cuts the forest down to make a path for endless steel, The other finds the single ear that makes the harvest real, For metal knows no difference between the weed and wheat, While labor reads the field like words upon a quiet street.	6	The iron hums a single, hungry tune, A silver wave that cuts across the green, It does not check for ripeness or for moon, But slices through what's seedling and what's queen. Across this path where steel makes no reply, The workers move with quiet, gentle hands, They scan the stalk beneath the vast blue sky, And separate the gold from scattered sands. One wrist can turn to spare the sprouting bud, To leave the tangled vine until tomorrow, While reaper blades make silence deep and mud, Reflecting neither hope nor human sorrow. So let the drone rewrite the field in gray, And take what isnt ready just to please, We walk beneath the sun throughout the day, To choose the fruit that truly brings release.	6	润扩帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	7
539	ultra_held_out	On the Massacre of Christians in Bulgaria by Oscar Wilde	Oscar Wilde	A poem about questioning God's divinity and calling upon Christ to intervene as dying men groan and children lay slaughtered upon the stones, while the world falls into darkness and the threat of being usurped looms.	Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre? And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones? For here the air is horrid with men's groans, The priests who call upon Thy name are slain, Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain From those whose children lie upon the stones? Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom Curtains the land, and through the starless night Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see! If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!	Is the throne empty where the silence screams Or have you turned your face from burning scenes? The heavens hold no answer to the cry As dying men let out their final sigh. Upon the stones, the children lie in rows With blood that only cold and wind now knows. The world dissolves into a heavy night While shadows stretch to swallow up the light. A usurper waits with crown of iron steel To make the broken spirit cease to feel. O Christ, arise and break this shattering chain Before the last hope drowns within the rain. Step down from glory, walk among the slain And wash away the guilt we cannot gain. If God is far, then You must be our near To banish terror and the coming fear. Come now before the darkness claims its due And save us from the end that waits for you.	God whom Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Ed…	1	Why do You hide behind the silent vault While dying men groan in the dust and blood And children lie slaughtered upon the stones Their innocent breaths cut short by cruel swords O Christ, if You are God or man or both Step down from heaven's distant, burning height To halt the usurper who demands the throne As darkness swallows all the edges of the world Come not as lamb but lion to the slaughter Before the last light flickers out of sight And tyranny claims dominion over earth We call Your name while shadows stretch and creep Break every chain and shatter every lie That none may live to see another dawn Without the memory of Your saving hand Awaken now before the hour strikes Or else we wonder if there was a God Who watched His children die and said nothing Christ intervene or all is lost to night The usurper laughs as stars fall from the sky Only Your voice can stanch the bleeding wounds Only Your blood can wash the killing fields Return O Lord and seize back what was ours For all who suffer cry out in despair Waiting for a sign that never comes While evil triumphs in the empty dark Christ hear our prayer and drive away the grave Lest death be all that remains of history When morning fails to break the endless gloom Save us from him who seeks to be your King Save us from gods who sleep while worlds burn down Christ come quickly ere the final breath Shall gasp its last against the killing cold No other savior walks these ruined streets Only You bear the weight of such despair Only You know the agony of loss Rise up and strike the sword from murderer hands Restore the glory of the crushed and poor Who died believing in a loving God Who failed to stop the killing on the stones Christ intervene before the darkness wins Before the usurper wears the holy crown Before the children whom We loved are gone Leave only silence where their laughter grew Christ come quick or all is doomed to hell Christ come quick or all is doomed to hell Christ come quick or all is doomed to hell Christ come quick or all is doomed to hell C…	5	Is there a voice behind the silence Or only dust where glory used to be? The heavens hold their breath in cruel indifference While we scream our questions at the empty sea. Christ, if you are more than myth or memory Rise from the grave and tear the sky apart For dying men are groaning on the floor And children lie slaughtered upon the stones of heart. The world dissolves into a choking dark As shadows stretch to claim what once was light A usurper waits within the trembling arc To steal the throne and extinguish every sight. Do not let them win this final hour Break the chains of doubt that bind our knees Show us the fire of your terrible power Before the night consumes all that it seized. Speak now before the darkness takes its crown Before the usurper wears the diadem Lift up your head and never look down But drive the sword of truth through hell and them.	6	Why do you hide behind the silent sky While dying men groan in the dust and cry? The stones are wet with children's slaughtered breath And darkness creeps to swallow life from death. If you are God, why let the tyrant rise To steal the crown from off your own true eyes? The threat of usurpation fills the air As shadows stretch and silence strips us bare. O Christ, arise and break this heavy night And turn the coming terror into light Before the throne is lost to wicked hands And all the world dissolves like shifting sands. Come now, intervene before it ends too late And seal the fate of those who call our hate For if you do not hear the broken plea Then who but you remains to set us free?	6	If You are God, why do the heavens hold their breath? Why does the silence stretch so thin and cold As dying men groan out their final debt And children lay slaughtered upon the stones of old? The world is falling into heavy dark, A shadow rising to usurp the throne, Where light was once a promise, now a spark That flickers low before it turns to stone. We call upon the Christ who walked this dust, To break the chains of night and claim the sky, Before the usurper turns our hope to rust And lets the last faint ember slowly die. Come down, O Savior, in Your mercy's name, Or tell us truly if the Father sleeps, While chaos swallows up the sacred flame And darkness deepens where the sorrow weeps.	6	Is the throne empty where the silence screams, Or is the Father deaf to fractured dreams? The sky has turned a bruised and heavy gray, As shadows swallow up the light of day. Here upon the stones the children lay, Their small hands cold beneath the weight of clay, While dying men in final breaths entreat, For mercy that refuses now to meet. O Christ, arise from sleep within the tomb, And break the darkness with a sudden bloom, Before the usurper claims the broken crown, And drags the world into eternal down. Do not let silence be the only word, When every voice by violence is blurred, But step between the slaughter and the stone, And make this realm your own, or claim it known.	6	Is this the silence of a throne too high to hear? The sky has turned to ash, the sun refuses light, While groans of dying men rise up to meet the void, And children lay upon the stones in pools of red. O Christ, if you are flesh and blood as once you walked, Break through the veil that hides your Father's face, For now the shadows stretch their claws across the earth, And usurpers whisper plans within the dark. They claim the crown is theirs by right of might alone, But let your spear divide the night they weave so tight, We cannot trust the silence while the world falls down, So rise, O Word made flesh, and make the darkness flee.	3	Is this the throne where silence reigns so deep? Does light expand within this void you make, Or is the crown beneath a shadow cast, While empires crumble into final break? Oh fixer please rise and break this chain, Before the usurper takes what isn't his. The stones run red beneath the moon's cold eye, As dying men extend their final mist. Make way for help before the sun decays, And let the echo of your voice resound. For here the small lay scattered on the ground, With threads of life unraveling profound. If you are true, then turn this tide tonight, And wake the sleepers from this endless dread.	7	Does silence rewrite make reply write make reply write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write w…	1
541	ultra_held_out	Nightstand with Roses by Jody Zorgdrager	Jody Zorgdrager	A poem about revealing the complexities of a relationship breakup through an untrustworthy narrator's account, where strong emotions and hurtful reactions risk overrunning the truth.	They weren’t red nor was I angry, but with something five shades lighter than passion, I plucked the roses bald. Anyway, they were sorry things. Their nodding heads on such long stems reminded me how tiring it is, always trying to forgive. And besides, I did it gently, pulling petals the way one tugs off an insect’s wings, by twos. What my thumb and fingertips began to hear—yes, they listened for it— was the shaggy center’s thick dribble, the tiny rip of dismemberment, and, in between, the moment of small panic that comes before—as just before withdrawing a mouth from another mouth there comes that in-suck, that sudden taking back although you’ve already given it up, given up to it—the letting go. I couldn’t stop until I had the whole drawer full of floating pink on pink.	They say I screamed, that I threw things but really I just whispered until my throat was raw and the glass on the floor was already there before I ever raised my voice. You left first, or so you claim, slamming a door that I had already opened wide to let the cold air in and prove we were free. I remember the silence being loud enough to break bones not because I broke it, but because you refused to hear me. It wasn't a fight, it was a slow unraveling that you insist I started with a single cruel word a word I never spoke, a word you invented to justify the exit. My hands are clean of the mess you describe yet you paint them black with every story you tell your friends. The truth is a slippery thing when grief holds the pen and writes over the lines until nothing looks like what happened. We both know how it ended, or at least we think we do until one of us decides the version where they are the victim is the only one worth keeping.	She said she killed all killing went home crying not laughing not throwing things but certainly she threw him out said he smashed his hands then drove to nowhere etcetera etcetera etcetera of course she started it that little white hairpin was mine not hers why else had it appeared by his chin besotted probably who else opens such doors otherwise who else know about those dates etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc 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etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc…	1	She said it ended in a flash but she was shouting by the door when really we were drinking tea and talking about much more I saw her crying on the floor a picture of such tragic loss while all I did was lock the drawer to hide the things she otherwise might have destroyed she claims I drove her out with cruelty and spite but nobody knows the way she looked at me that night not angry, not depressed just empty as a room where all the furniture had been taken from its home of course she says I pushed that I was cold and hard that every loving gesture was a lie or poorly guarded card but who can say what happened when two people fall apart except the one who stayed behind who bears the broken heart she tells a story full of blame of monsters and of ghosts of how I killed the very love that mattered most but if you look too closely at the edges of her speech you see the tremor in her hands the things she tries to reach not back to who we were but back to who she thought she was before the killing started before the killing stopped and all that remains is who says it ended first or last or never really started at all only loud noises in an empty hall where everyone else went home long ago leaving us to argue over who was right about the dark that came between us both and how it feels to be the one who got away from nothing more than silence and a door that clicked shut too hard for either of us to bear or perhaps it was too soft to stop the world from spinning out of control again and again and again without end or reason other than we were there and then we were not and she says it was my fault because she cannot stand to know that sometimes love just stops working like a clock whose gears have worn away and who has none of the answers left to say except that she was mad and I was sad and that was all there was to it besides the stories that we told to hide the truth from who we were most of all from ourselves in the mirror looking back at who we used to be before the end came calling with its heavy footsteps on the s…	2	She said she never loved me not really, not in the way that matters and I believe her because it hurts less to think the whole thing was a lie than to admit I was simply not enough she packed her bags with such cold precision leaving no room for doubt or hesitation or maybe she cried while she folded but I didn't see it I only saw the door slam a violent punctuation to a story I wrote myself she called me selfish and cruel words that stick like burrs in wool but everyone knows how dramatic she gets how she twists facts to fit her narrative of course she blames me of course she says I drove her away when all I did was try to hold on the truth is slippery when you are bleeding it slides right out of your hands and leaves you holding only the sharp edges of what you wish had happened instead of what actually did so I will tell you she left without looking back that she laughed at my tears because if I say she stayed if I say she begged then the pain has nowhere to go except straight through the heart and I cannot survive another version of this where I am the villain or worse where we were both just people trying and failing to be happy together no it was better it was always better that she hated me because hatred is clean and love love is a mess that nobody wants to sort through especially not me who remembers too much and believes too little about anyone else least of all her who swore she would never leave right before she walked out and took the silence with her which was probably the most honest thing she ever did but I won't say that because admitting the truth would mean admitting that I knew all along that it was over before it even began and that is a betrayal I cannot forgive in myself or in her or in the empty space between us where the words used to live before they turned into weapons we threw at each other blindly desperately hoping one of them would hit and kill the feeling once and for all but feelings do not die they just hide behind lies like mine like hers waiting for someone to come and dig them…	2	I told them you left first that you packed the bags in silence and drove away before the sun could rise but really I was the one who slammed the door hard enough to crack the frame because your voice had become a blade cutting through every lie I tried to weave they say I'm bitter, that my memory is warped by the wine and the anger still burning in my chest but how can they know the truth when I am the only one who remembers the way you looked at me like I was nothing like I was a ghost already haunting an empty room I swear you were the one who stopped loving who stopped answering when I called who stopped seeing the cracks in the foundation until the whole house fell down on us both and if I say it was your fault if I paint you as the villain in this story then maybe I won't have to admit that I loved you too much to let go and not enough to stay so yes, I lied about the time about the words spoken about who threw the first stone because the real version hurts too much to be told by someone who knows exactly how deep the wound goes and exactly whose hand held the knife	2	They say I screamed, but the walls just shook with the quiet weight of things unsaid and she was the one who packed the boxes first while I stood there holding nothing but air or maybe it was her hands that trembled as she traced the cracks in the drywall I swear she laughed when the door clicked shut a cold sound like glass breaking underfoot but really she was crying so hard she couldn't breathe and I was the monster who made her leave not because I pushed but because she ran from a love too heavy for her small shoulders to carry without dropping it all on me the truth is a slippery thing in my mouth tasting like ash and old lies I told myself so I'll tell you what happened: I won and she lost everything she ever loved which is exactly why she had to go.	2	I told you they left first, that the door slammed shut before I even raised my voice to match the thunder. You know how I am with details, how memory bends like light through a warped lens in this house we shared. They said I was cold, but I was just holding still, a statue made of glass while they shattered the room. Don't listen to what they wrote in those letters, ink is so easily spilled by trembling hands. I remember the silence, yes, but it was peaceful, not the heavy kind that crushes lungs and ribs. They claim I cried for hours, but tears are just water, and I have never been one to drown in shallow pools. It was a clean break, surgical and precise, nothing like the messy scene they painted for the neighbors. Why does the truth feel so sharp when spoken aloud? Maybe because I am the only one who knows the weight of the lie I built to keep us from falling apart.	2	I told them you left first, that you packed the boxes while I slept, But the truth is a messy thing I keep rearranging to make it fit my shape. You didn't scream until I said the words that made your eyes go cold, And now I write it down as if you were the storm and I was just the rain. They say I'm lying, but isn't every story just a version of what we need? I remember the silence as an attack, though you were just trying to breathe. Your hand on the doorframe wasn't a plea, or so I tell myself tonight, It was a weapon, a final strike against the fragile peace we built. The tears you shed look like proof in my retelling, heavy and undeniable, Even though they might have been for something else entirely, something I missed. I paint the scene with broad strokes of betrayal to justify the ache in my chest, Blurring the lines until the villain is clear and the victim is me. So let them hear this version, polished smooth and free of my own sharp edges, Where the hurt makes perfect sense because I decided who broke what.	2	I told you first, I swear, that I was calm, While they were the ones unraveling thread by thread. The coffee cup I shattered It wasn't my mistake They made me write this I don't remember Please Don't make Make Make	2	I write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite …	1
542	ultra_held_out	Jack Sprat	A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes	"A poem about a greedy character named Jack Sprat whose connection to political figures and popular legends helped popularize the saying into a canonical English nursery rhyme."	Jack Sprat could eat no fat. His wife could eat no lean. And so between them both, you see, They licked the platter clean Jack ate all the lean, Joan ate all the fat. The bone they picked it clean, Then gave it to the cat	In halls of power where the whispers start, A figure named Jack Sprat played his part. Though history claims he was a man of lean, His name became a legend, sharp and keen. The politicians used his tale to mock, Of those who feast while others lack a lock. From royal courts to legends old and deep, He carved a promise that the people keep. No fat could stay upon his bony frame, While others burned with greed and sought for fame. The nursery rhyme took root in every tongue, Where Jack's own story had so long been sung. Now children chant what once was political art, The greedy ghost of Jack Sprat's hungry heart.	Poor Jack Sprat grew poor from appetite Fetching all he saw to his gaping jaw He rubbed his chin while Richard Edward watched Both bearing bears of ill-selected port Robert Louis Stevenson drew Robert Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward 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Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward Edward…	1	Poor Jack Sprat was not poor by birth But rich in appetite and earth His name once tossed in politics Where deals were struck and secrets picked He saw the way the powerful fed While lesser men went nearly dead Then legend grew from rumor's mouth About a man who had no doubt That fat belonged to him alone And lean was meant for some unknown The nursery came calling next To wash his image of all sex Of hunger or of political spite And turn his gluttony to light A simple verse for children young Where eating habits are all sung Jack eats the fat and she the lean The most famous marriage ever seen No king nor fool invented it Just greed dressed up as nursery wit Now every child knows Jack by heart Who taught the world about excess How he and Mrs. Sprat divided The spoils of life that none denied From backroom deals to lullabies His appetite became our prize A saying stuck like grease on plate Because we liked his selfish fate No longer talking politics But feeding all our childhood tricks Jack Sprat lives on in books and songs Where everyone believes he belongs Not as a man of vice or crime But just a figure killed by time In rhyme and reason, fat and lean The greedy man whom all have seen Who passed his hunger down the line To live inside the nursery fine His story grew from rumor's root To bear such very juicy fruit That history forgot his real Much worse and much more actual deal Instead we hear the happy sound Of eating all his pounds around Jack Sprat remains a kitchen god Who satisfied the common odd By eating fat while others starved His legend nowhere ever barred From page to page and tongue to tongue His appetite is never hung It feeds the poor who hear his name And laugh at his ridiculous game Of having all and giving none Beneath the pale and setting sun The saying sticks because he tried To hide his politics and pride Behind a wall of milk and bread Where all his greedy thoughts were bred Now Jack Sprat lives in every home As children happily all roam Through stories of a man who ate His way through poli…	7	Jack Sprat was a man of appetite Who saw the world as his private bite He linked his name to kings and lords To spread his hunger through the boards From tales of old and political jest He sought to be the very best Not by virtue or by grace But by eating every last crumb in place The legend grew with every rhyme Turning greed into a nursery time Now children know him everywhere A greedy ghost who once had air His story stuck, a classic line Where fat and lean were drawn in fine A canonical verse for all to see Born of Jack's wild vanity.	6	Jack Sprat was a man of appetite and greed Who sought to consume all the food he could feed He looked to the kings and the lords of the land To see how much power a glutton could command From tales of old legends that whispered his name His hunger grew larger, a notorious fame The people began to recite what he did As politics shifted and fortunes were hid A rhyme for the children, a warning so clear That greed leaves a table with nothing to share Now Jack lives in books as a canonical sign Of taking too much and leaving none behind	7	Young Jack Sprat sat at the table's head With eyes that hungered for the bread, While fat and lean were split apart, A greedy scheme within his heart. He spoke of kings who feasted deep, And legends where the rich would sleep, Connecting tales of power's greed To every common man's need. Through whispered courts and tavern songs, The moral grew and drifted long, Until the rhyme took root so deep, A canonical promise to keep. Now children chant what Jack once knew, That one eats all while others go through, A nursery verse with political sting, Where greed is sung by everything.	6	Jack Sprat was a man of hollow greed Who ate the lean and left the fat for need, A tale that started in the market square With whispers of the lords who sat on air. They say he dined with kings who feasted deep While common folk were sent to hungry sleep, And legends spun of bishops fat as swine Who drank the wine while Jack would only dine. The scribes wrote down his gluttony so plain To mock the powerful and their rich domain, Until the rhyme became a nursery song Where greedy men could never right belong. Now children chant the words from coast to shore Of how the lean was taken and the fat ignored, A canonical verse born of political strife That carved Jack Sprat's name into our life.	6	In days when kings held court with heavy greed, A tailor named Jack Sprat did make his plea. He sought the scraps that lesser men would leave, And hoarded every crumb and slice of beef. Though history whispers he was just a man, The legends grew to match the political plan. For lords who feasted while the people starved, Found in this tale a mirror they preserved. They paired him with a wife so lean and small, Who ate the fat until she could not fall. Together they became a symbol stark, Of balance lost within the royal park. The ballads spread from taverns to the throne, Until the rhyme was carved in flesh and bone. No longer just a story of a pair, But proof that greed is everywhere. So now the words are sung by child and sage, Across the pages of a written age. Jack Sprat remains, though flesh has turned to dust, A lesson learned in gluttony and trust.	6	Young Jack Sprat with eyes so wide, Could make the hungry feast divide. He met a king within the hall, And whispered tales to make them fall. The legends spread from crown to street, Where greed and polish make reply sweet. A rhyme crafted for courtly play, To make the glutton's meal give way. Now mothers sing what politicians write, Of flesh left clean beneath the light. So through the centuries the tune takes flight, Turning simple greed into pure right.	6	Make rewrite	7
546	ultra_held_out	Chinoiseries by Amy Lowell	Amy Lowell	"A poem about a woman gazing at a serene garden of peonies and pagodas beside a still lake, reaching for the beautiful crimson flowers only to have them breaking in her hands, illustrating how people are spoiling the very things they desire."	When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling pagodas, And round-arched bridges Over still lakes. A woman sat beside the water In a rain-blue, silken garment. She reached through the water To pluck the crimson peonies Beneath the surface, But as she grasped the stems, They jarred and broke into white-green ripples, And as she drew out her hand, The water-drops dripping from it Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.	She walks where silent water holds the sky And pagodas in green and gold arise, Where peonies in crimson clouds unfold A story that the stillness has been told. Her fingers stretch to claim the velvet bloom That chases shadows from the quiet room, But as she grasps the heavy, fragrant head, The petals crumble into dust and red. They break beneath the weight of her desire, Turning to ash within her trembling fire, For greed is sharp enough to ruin grace, And leave no beauty in the human place. She sought to keep the flower for her own, But in the holding, lost it all alone, Proving how hearts that crave too much destroy The very thing they love with such a joy.	She gazes out where still waters lie besuch pagodas pale and quaint while heavy-headed peonies bloom all otherwise uninhabitant rich insets of such gorgeous red that temptation draws her killing reach she longs to pinch a lovely head to hold it closely in her teeth but tender stems were not for killing nor such poor spoiling hands when grasped by avid killing such beauty slips away and ruined bits fall from killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing killing spoiling killing killing kill…	1	She walks beside the still and glassy lake Where pagodas in silent rows arise And peonies in heavy crimson quake Beneath a pale and indifferent sky Her hand reaches out to hold the bloom That seemed too rich for such a quiet place But as her fingers brush the velvet room The petals shatter in her trembling space They crumble softly at her desperate touch As if their beauty was not meant to stay She thought that loving meant to grasp much But ruined all she came here long to pray How often do we spoil the things we prize By holding on too hard and killing slow Destroying with our very grasping eyes The very gardens where we seek to grow She stands surrounded by the broken red While pagodas remain unmoved and far A warning that the living and the dead Are crushed most hard by those who reach most far The water holds no image of her grief Only the falling dust of crushed desire Proving how love demands a different leaf Not seizing all but learning how admire From afar The flower lives The flower dies When seized It cries In vain No more It grew For whom To see Not be Possessed At last The cost Is great To taste Before It fades Like all Things We Save Only To Lose Them All In Hand Full Woe That Spoils The View She Sought Most True When She Reached Out To Touch The Bliss That Passed Away Too Quick To Miss The Warning In The Broken Flower Showing How Our Greed Unravels Every Hour Of Peace She Found Beside The Still Water Edge Where Pagodas Stand On Solid Mud And Peonies Were Once Whole In Their Tranquil Hood Now Scattered Dust Returns To Earth Undone By Hands That Thought Themselves Enough To Own The Moon Shining On The Crimson Shown Too Bright To Bear Such Heavy Weight In Any Hand That Grasps With Impatience Defined By Want Instead Of Wonder Leaving Nothing But A Memory Of Beauty Destroyed By Its Own Demand To Have More Than It Offers Free In Silent Grace Before The Fall Of Man Who Seeks To Keep What Was Never Meant To Stay In His Dominion Over Things He Cannot Hold Without Destroying Everything He Touches With His Po…	7	She walks where silence holds the water still Beside the pagodas that pierce the air Where peonies in crimson cups fulfill The quiet promise of a garden there Her hand reaches out with gentle grace To touch the velvet petals, soft and bright But in her grasp, they lose their resting place And crumble into dust before her sight The bloom she sought to keep and hold so near Breaks under fingers meant to simply see A bitter truth that lingers sharp and clear How desire kills the very thing to be We reach to seize the beauty we admire Only to watch it shatter in our hands Like burning flowers fed by our own fire Leaving only ruin on the silent lands The lake reflects the broken stems she left While pagodas stand watching all the same Of how the heart that loves is often cleft By trying too hard to possess its name For what we crave most deeply slips away When grasped too tight within a greedy palm Turning the brightest day to grayest clay And stealing from ourselves the peaceful calm The garden waits untouched by human greed In perfect stillness by the water's edge While we who plant the seeds of want and need Are left standing at the crumbling bridge Holding nothing but the memory of red And wondering why the loveliest things must die When all we ever wanted was to tread Gently among them without saying goodbye.	7	She stands beside the glassy lake Where pagodas in silence wake And peonies in crimson bloom Dispelling all the morning gloom With petals soft as velvet skin She reaches out to pull them in A greedy hand, a trembling wish To hold the flower's perfect dish But fingers close on fragile grace And crush the beauty from its place The crimson shreds fall to the mud Like blood upon a quiet flood For in the grasp of those who crave The loveliest things are but a grave We touch the world we claim to love And leave it broken from above Destroying what we seek to keep While promises we cannot reap The garden fades, the lake grows dim Because we reached too far for him Or her, or any lovely thing That breaks beneath our wanting wing.	7	Soft mist clings to the lake where water sleeps Beneath the silent watch of stone pagodas deep And there she stands within the garden green Where crimson peonies in perfect silence lean She reaches out with hands that yearn and crave To hold the beauty that the morning gave But as her fingers close around the bloom The fragile petals crumble into gloom A sudden break, a rustle, then a fall The vibrant red now scattered on them all For in the grasping grip of want so strong The very thing she loved was lost too long We seek to keep what makes our spirits light Yet crush the treasure in our desperate flight The garden fades as desire turns to dust Spoiling the flower for the sake of trust	6	She stands beside the glassy lake so still Where stone pagodas rise in quiet grace, And peonies unfold with crimson will To fill the morning air with gentle space. Her fingers stretch to claim the velvet bloom, A desperate wish to hold the beauty near, But as she pulls them close within the room Of her own hands, the fragile petals tear. The vibrant red dissolves into a stain, The perfect shape is crushed beneath her grip, She sought to keep what could not be contained, And watched the garden fade upon her lip. So often we destroy the things we love, In grasping tight to make them truly ours, We break the sky and shatter stars above, And ruin all the peace that nature pours.	7	The lake holds still beneath the stone, Where peonies in crimson bloom, And pagodas reflect alone, Within this quiet, misty gloom. She steps upon the mossy path, Drawn by the scent of velvet deep, And reaches past the morning's wrath, To wake the petals from their sleep. Her fingers close around the stem, A desperate grasp for perfect red, But fragile silk begins to gem, And crumble into dust instead. The bloom she sought now turns to gray, As broken fragments fall away, Revealing how we steal the day, And ruin what we long to keep.	6	The lake holds mirrors deep and still beneath the mist, Where stone pagodas rise above the quiet green, And peonies unfold in crimson velvet mist, A perfect calm within this sacred scene. She leans across the reeds with eyes so soft and wide, Reaching for the bloom that burns so bright against the gray, But tightens round the stem where fragile petals hide, Until the heavy bud gives way to decay. The crimson crumbles into dust upon her palm, The scent turns bitter as the final piece breaks free, For greed is just a shadow cast within the calm, That steals the beauty meant to make us truly see.	7	Sil mist unfolds above the glass so deep rewrite write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite r…	1
548	ultra_held_out	The Anactoria Poem by Sappho	Sappho	"A poem about a speaker considering the nature of beauty and love, using the example of Helen leaving her family, friends, and home to explore what makes something truly beautiful and worth admiring."	Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers, others call a fleet the most beautiful of sights the dark earth offers, but I say it's what- ever you love best. And it's easy to make this understood by everyone, for she who surpassed all human kind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her husband--that best of men--went sailing off to the shores of Troy and never spent a thought on her child or loving parents: when the goddess seduced her wits and left her to wander, she forgot them all, she could not remember anything but longing, and lightly straying aside, lost her way. But that reminds me now: Anactória, she's not here, and I'd rather see her lovely step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and glittering armor.	She stepped away from the woven hearth and left the quiet laughter of her kin, trading the known for a stranger's breath, to see where the golden thread begins. Was it the face that drew the ships to sail? Or the fire that burned in a sudden glance? Did beauty demand a heavy gale to break the calm of a peaceful dance? They say she loved the man, not just the look, but I wonder if love is the thing we chase, or if it is simply the risk we took to leave the safety of our own space. For Helen found that what we call divine is often built on a fractured floor, a choice to cross the salt and brine for something more than a locked door. Perhaps true beauty is not the gold that sits untouched upon a shelf, but the story of being bold enough to hold the weight of losing one's self.	She burned a picture-book home by throwing herself out the window of all she knew to see otherwise was beauty not a courtesy returned by neighbours who grew ordinarily beautiful but Helen went elsewhere thinking that admiration had edges she had never tested love entered only after she had left everything else behind asking if getting more was getting more or getting none of it at all then returned with hair ash and rich spoils from besieged gardens to ask us why we still admired rent rather rent went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went else went e…	1	She stepped from Troy's high gates and left the warmth of hearth and kin to follow a stranger whom she had never known was that impulse madness or a sudden light that showed her all she lacked behind those familiar walls where days were measured in routine rather than the tremor of a heart opened wide to danger perhaps beauty is not the marble of temples nor the symmetry of gods but the terrible courage it takes to burn one life down to see if ash tastes like freedom or if love demands such a heavy price that admiration itself must bend before the sheer audacity of choosing unknown shores over the comfort of home for maybe what we call divine is simply the willingness to lose everything to find out who we are when no one else remains to witness our fall or watch us fly away from all we loved toward a ruin that looks more like beginning than any ending we ever knew was possible before she went far from home to see if love was real or only a dream wearing gold leaf that sheds in the first strong wind of truth and still she walked on thinking that to be beautiful was to be brave enough to not look back at all even as the city burned behind her like a candle ended by its own flame while she became the story itself more lasting than any stone that once held up her roof or named her child or called her wife or said she was whole when she was only half waiting to be made new by the very pain of going away from all that was safe to meet the unknown face of desire that had no map but its own aching direction drawing us all who watch from afar to ask ourselves what we would trade for such a view of our own hearts unlocked by reckless hands that know no law but their own yearning to touch the edge of something bright that might destroy them but will never let them sleep again without asking why they were born to want more than they have ever had or been or known to call their own before the ship took sail and left the shore behind as part of history that says she was lovely not because she was returned but because she went …	2	She stepped away from the hearth and the familiar stone Leaving behind the laughter of children and the weight of a wife To follow a stranger whose beauty burned like a sudden fire And wonder if the cost was worth the prize she sought Was it the curve of his jaw or the promise of a new dawn That made her trade the known for the unknown Perhaps true beauty is not in the face that stops the breath But in the terrible courage to burn down a life To see if the ash can form something more divine Love then becomes the question rather than the answer A dangerous gravity pulling us toward the edge Where we must decide if the fall itself is the glory Or if the ruin of home is the only way to know What it means to be whole enough to break She walked out the gate with nothing but her heart And left us all to wonder what she found In the silence between the waves and the wind If admiration lives in the leaving or the staying Or if it simply lives in the choice to be free Even when freedom looks like destruction Even when the most beautiful thing Is the one that leaves you standing alone With an empty house and a full memory Of how easily a world can end Just because a woman decided That she wanted to see How bright the other side could burn	6	She stepped away from the hearth and the familiar stone, Leaving the woven tapestries of home behind, To chase a shadow that seemed to glow alone, A beauty defined by the wind and the mind. Was it the face that launched a thousand ships? Or was it the courage to burn the bridge she stood upon? The friends who wept in the twilight's quiet dips, The family lost as the morning turned to dawn. Perhaps true admiration is not the gold we keep, But the terrible cost of choosing what we feel, A promise broken while others fall asleep, To know if love is a wound or a healing seal. Helen walked on where the sea meets the sky, Not for the glory, but to see if the fire would last, Learning that beauty is not a thing to buy, But the heavy price of seeing all things pass.	6	She walked away from hearth and woven wool To chase a shadow cast by golden eyes, Leaving the quiet of the daily dull For promises that burn before they rise. Was it the face that made the world unspool? Or just the fire in the heart's disguise? We call it beauty when we lose control, But is it worth the price to lose one's soul? The stones she left behind were rough and gray, Yet held the weight of years she knew so well, While Paris offered sun in endless day And stories that the bards would sing and tell. But beauty is not just the light of clay, Nor love the sudden spell that makes us dwell On distant shores where no roots ever grow, But on the choice to let the old wind blow. Perhaps the truest thing we can admire Is not the prize that sets the cities burning, But how the flame consumes the very wire That once was strong enough for us to turn. Helen sought a spark that could not tire, Yet found that what we love is often yearning For something lost within the act of seeking, A truth too sharp for any tongue to speak.	6	Was it the gold of Troy that caught the eye Or just the shadow cast by a departing grace? When Helen turned her back on Sparta's sky, She left the safety of a known embrace. The friends she knew, the home where bread was broken, All traded for a stranger's whispered vow. We call this love, or perhaps a foolish token, But what is beauty if it breaks us now? Is beauty found in walls that hold us tight, Or in the wind that pulls the wanderer away? Perhaps the truest light is not the sight, But what we risk to make the journey stay. To leave is to declare that something burns More bright than all the comfort we have kept. The fire that makes the quiet heart turn, Is worth the price of every promise slept. So let us ask when eyes are drawn so deep: Is love the anchor or the sail unfurled? If Helen chose the storm over the sleep, Then beauty is the thing that shakes the world.	6	She stepped away from woven tapestries and quiet halls, From the warmth of a mother's hand and friends who knew her name, To chase a shadow across the salt and foam, Driven by a pull that felt like fire in the bone. Was it the curve of a lip or the glint of golden eyes? Or something deeper, hidden beneath the skin of flesh, That made a kingdom burn for a single glance, And trade the safety of hearth for the peril of the deep? We call it beauty when the world aligns to please the eye, But Helen found it in the breaking of the chain, In the terrifying weight of choosing what is new, Even if it means becoming lost within the storm. Perhaps true love is not the keeping of the safe, But the willingness to leave the known behind, To seek a truth so bright it scorches every bridge, And make the ruin itself the thing we most admire.	6	I watch the smoke rise from the towers of Troy, And think upon the vessel that carved the tide, Upon the queen who left her woven thread, Her daughter's cry, her mother's quiet pride. Is beauty found within the polished stone, Or in the act that breaks the sacred chain? Did Helen weigh the safety of a throne, Against the storm within a lover's brain? To make this journey is to make it so, That what is loved becomes what makes us bleed. The gold upon the crown does not make glow, But only acts the vessel for the need. So tell me now, what makes the sun expand, Is it the light alone, or how we turn? For love is just the shadow cast by hand, Until the final embers cease to burn.	6	Did gold make改写 write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite re…	7
551	train	Alice the Camel	A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes	"A poem about a camel named Alice losing her humps one by one, counting down from five to zero, until revealing in a surprising punchline that she is actually a horse."	Alice the camel has five humps. Alice the camel has five humps. Alice the camel has five humps. So go, Alice, go! Boom, boom, boom, boom! Alice the camel has four humps. Alice the camel has four humps. Alice the camel has four humps. So go, Alice, go! Boom, boom, boom, boom! Alice the camel has three humps. Alice the camel has three humps. Alice the camel has three humps. So go, Alice, go! Boom, boom, boom, boom! Alice the camel has two humps. Alice the camel has two humps. Alice the camel has two humps. So go, Alice, go! Boom, boom, boom, boom! Alice the camel has one hump. Alice the camel has one hump. Alice the camel has one hump. So go, Alice, go! Boom, boom, boom, boom! Alice the camel has no humps. Alice the camel has no humps. Alice the camel has no humps. ‘Cause Alice is a horse, of course!	Alice the camel had five humps to her back, A mountainous ridge that would never turn slack. But down came the first one with a soft plop and sigh, Leaving four bumpy peaks beneath the blue sky. Then two slipped away while she grazed on the grass, Now only three lumps in a row as they pass. The third one dissolved like a cloud in the rain, And Alice stood tall with just two hills to gain. One more tumbled off as she walked through the town, Leaving a single peak that was wobbling down. That last little mound gave a final goodbye, As Alice stood flat with a smooth, empty eye. No hump left behind, not a bump or a dent, Just a sleek, slender neck and a mane freshly bent. She neighed at the moon with a whinny so clear, For Alice the camel was really a horse right here.	Poor Alice started tough with five great snowy domes she wondered who such size had fitted all poor homes then came a sunny Tuesday that saw her first one slip went from fantastic fabulous to worrying about appetite down jumped the next big lump by Wednesday she had three went back home crying asking everybody why her back looked odd next went two by Friday only one remained thinking poor poor Alice such pain none other had but Sunday came and poor poor hair went flat went nowhere went none went nowhere went all went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went went …	1	Poor Alice had five humps of fat A mountain range on her back She counted them one by one As she trudged along the track Five great hills grew smaller Then four and three remained Two were left in sorrow Only one poor lump stayed One last hill was flat Then none were there to see She looked quite strange and sudden With a very different key The desert gasped in wonder At the sight that came to view No camel ever lived like this With hair all shiny blue She tossed her head and neighed aloud Confused but feeling free For all those bumps were illusive As everyone could see Alice laughed a happy laugh And kicked up sandy dust She never had a hump at all She was actually a horse	3	Alice the camel had five humps to her back A mountainous range on a long dusty track But one by one they began to slide away Leaving her wondering about her next day She counted down from five as the first one fell Then four remained, which seemed quite well Three humps were left when she drank some tea Two stayed behind for all of to see One lonely bump was the last of the lot Until it vanished and then she was not A camel at all with a strange little grin As the final illusion began to thin No humps were left on her slender spine She tossed her mane in a sudden design The truth came out in a neigh and a trot Poor Alice was never a camel, but a horse that got hot	7	Alice stood with five great humps of fat A desert wonder, proud and flat She counted down as days went by And watched her strange anatomy dry Five became four then three in sight A wobbly walk from morning light Three turned to two then just a one Before the setting of the sun Two became one then none at all No camel shape remained to call The mystery solved, the truth is clear She was a horse without a fear	7	Alice the camel had five humps so high, She wobbled and bumped beneath the blue sky. But down came the first with a soft little sigh, Leaving four lumps for Alice to try. Then one more fell off in the heat of the day, Now three humps remained as she wandered away. The second one vanished without any play, And two humps were left on her back to stay. With a shake and a shiver, the third one took flight, Leaving just one hump in the pale morning light. The last one rolled down with a thud out of sight, And Alice stood smooth in the cool evening night. No humps on her back, no bump or no lump, Just a sleek, slender neck and a very long jump. She trotted with grace through the desert sand deep, A horse named Alice who fooled everyone's keep.	7	Alice the camel had five humps to spare, A towering stack of woolly air. But as she walked across the sand, The first one slipped right from her hand. Four humps remained upon her back, Until a sneeze made one crack. Three humps stood proud against the sky, Then tumbled down before my eye. Two humps left, wobbling and weak, They vanished with a sudden creak. One lonely mound was all that stayed, Until it too quietly faded. Zero humps now on her spine, Her silhouette began to shine. No camel shape could be seen here, Just hooves that trotted loud and clear. With mane that flowed and tail so long, It wasn't Alice the camel at all along, For when the humps were gone from view, She turned around and neighed, "I'm just a horse, it's true."	6	Alice the camel stood so tall, With five great humps against the wall. But as the wind began to blow, The highest peak just had to go. Now four remain upon her back, A wobbly, uneven stack. Until a sneeze made one take flight, And now there's only left the night. Three humps left standing in the dust, Until the rain turned them to rust. One slipped away with quiet grace, Leaving two upon her face. Two humps remaining, distinct and proud, Until they vanished from the crowd. Just one left now, a lonely mound, Until it too could not be found. Zero humps left on her spine, No camel shape can truly shine. So check her neck and check her tail, For Alice is no camel at all, but a horse.	6	Alice stood beneath the sun so bright, With five proud humps upon her light. The wind blew soft across the sand, And gently took the number one. Now four remained above the rest, Until the second joined the rest. Three left upon her furry frame, Until the third forgot its name. Two humps stood tall against the sky, Until the fourth said goodbye. Just one remaining on the spine, Until the final drop rewrite. Zero now where peaks should be, Revealing hooves for all to see.	6	Deep within the misty rewrite make write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewrite write rewri…	2
552	ultra_held_out	no help for that by Charles Bukowski	Charles Bukowski	"A poem about striving for achievement while never feeling fulfilled, urging the acceptance of life's endless and insatiable nature."	There is a place in the heart that will never be filled a space and even during the best moments and the greatest times times we will know it we will know it more than ever there is a place in the heart that will never be filled and we will wait and wait in that space.	The ladder climbs but never touches sky Each rung we grasp becomes the floor beneath We chase the peak where shadows softly lie And find another mountain in our teeth The cup is poured but thirst remains the same A hollow echo in a crowded hall We burn the candle just to feed the flame And watch the wick dissolve before the fall Do not mistake the hunger for a flaw Nor blame the heart that beats beyond its fill The endless wind is nature's only law To keep the spirit wild and standing still Embrace the void that pulls us ever on Let go the dream of rest or final shore The journey is the place where we belong Not some distant peace we wait to explore	The hill asserts a summit that slips behind the edge of whom you killed to reach it only killing who returned from winning else more always else more never none of all went down to stay then up again to crawl etcetera etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc et…	1	We climb the ladder rung by trembling rung To taste the air that hangs just out of reach But when our hands at last have grasped the top The view remains a distant, barren beach For hunger lives behind the opened door A guest who never asks to leave or sleep It feeds on triumph as it fed on lack And stirs a thirst we vowed ourselves to keep Why mourn the well that never runs quite dry Or wish for clouds that block the burning sun The appetite defines the very breath That marks the living from the dead and done Embrace the ache that drives the heart to pound The hollow space where all achievement fails There is no summit reached in endless striving Only the glorious failure of our scales Let go the dream of having had enough When life demands we hunger still and more The sea drinks every river yet stays thirsty And loving lack is all we are looking for So walk the edge of nowhere with glad feet Where satisfaction was never meant to be Infinite longing is the only home That sets the restless spirit wildly free Stop counting spoils you cannot fully hold And drink the wine that tastes of empty glass The joy is not in drinking but in thirst In watching all your greatest victories pass Accept the void that stretches far and wide The beautiful and terrible unknown We were not built to ever say "it ends" But only "more," and "more," and "not yet grown." Surrender to the hunger in your bone The insatiable engine of the soul To reach an end would be to cease to live And killing wonder kills the whole Be drunk on wanting rather than having On questions asked and none returned The universe itself is not a prize But a great wondering that returns Returns returns returns Always returning Never satisfied Always More More More Yes More Always More Endless Insatiable Whole Not Whole Just More Beg Beg Beg Receive Nothing Have Everything Want Everything Live Die Live Want Live Live Live More More More Enough No More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More More Mo…	3	We climb the ladder rung by sweating rung And reach for stars that always drift away The summit calls with songs we never sung But silence waits at the edge of day No trophy holds the hunger in our chest No victory quiets the demanding bone We seek a peace that puts the heart to rest Yet find the road stretches and stands alone Why fight the current that will not be tamed Or wish the river ever stops its flow The fire burns because it is unnamed And growth demands the things we cannot know Accept the thirst that water cannot kill Embrace the gap between the want and have Let go of reaching for a distant hill And learn to swim within the endless wave There is no shore where striving comes to die Only the vast and open, hungry sea Where every "more" is just a passing cry And life itself is all there's meant to be	7	We climb the ladder rung by rung To taste a fruit that turns to dust The summit offers not a song But silence in the thirst we must Each victory is but a door That opens to a wider plain Where hunger walks the endless floor And longing feeds on joy and pain Do not mistake the reaching hand For something finally held and whole The sea demands the shifting sand And never asks the soul for control Embrace the void that pulls you on The gap between the now and next The day is never truly gone Until the final breath is wrecked Let go of what you think you need To find the peace within the chase The garden blooms from empty seed In time's unending, hungry space	6	We climb the ladder rung by rung To taste the fruit that never comes The summit shifts beneath our feet And silence answers all our drums Each victory is just a door That opens to a longer hall Where shadows stretch and time grows thin And nothing satisfies at all So stop the race you cannot win And let the hunger stay inside For life was made to be unspent With nowhere left for us to hide Embrace the void, the endless thirst The gap between what is and more It is not broken to be wanting It is simply being, nothing less	6	You climb the mountain just to find another peak Behind the summit where the air is thin and cold The trophy in your hand feels light as dust A hollow prize for all the years you sold No matter how far you run or how high you fly The horizon pulls away with every step The thirst remains a fire inside the chest That no amount of water can ever quench So stop demanding that the cup be full For emptiness is not a flaw to fix It is the very shape of being alive The endless tide that breaks against the rocks Accept the hunger, let it be your guide The chase itself is where the meaning lies There is no final shore, no perfect rest Only the vast and insatiable skies	6	We climb the ladder rungs of gold and glass, And promise rest once we have reached the peak, But find the summit is a misty pass, Where silence speaks what weary lungs cannot speak. The prize we chased dissolves into the air, A shadow cast by something yet unseen, For hunger builds upon the feast we share, And makes the valley deep where we have been. So drop the heavy crown you think you need, And cease the frantic race against the tide, There is no final harvest, only seed, And endless waves that break upon the side. Embrace the void that pulls us ever on, The insatiable beat within the chest, For in the wanting, we are truly born, And find our peace within the unrest.	7	You climb the peak to find the air is thin, And build a tower just to make it higher. The finish line retreats beneath your skin, A shadow cast upon a deeper fire. You carve your name into the stone so deep, Yet silence answers with a hollow sound. The promises you made you could not keep, Until the ground beneath is lost and found. So drop the burden that you claim is gold, And let the endless hunger write its script. For what is gained can never make us whole, Until we cease the desperate rewrite. Accept the void within the chest expands, No summit holds the rest you seek above.	6	Rew write rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrite rewrit…	1
559	train	The Tiger in the Menagerie by Emma Jones	Emma Jones	A poem about wildness and anger entering a controlled, civilized society, changing all those who experience it, and warning of the inevitable violence and damage that follows.	No one could say how the tiger got into the menagerie. It was too flash, too blue, too much like the painting of a tiger. At night the bars of the cage and the stripes of the tiger looked into each other so long that when it was time for those eyes to rock shut the bars were the lashes of the stripes the stripes were the lashes of the bars and they walked together in their dreams so long through the long colonnade that shed its fretwork to the Indian main that when the sun rose they'd gone and the tiger was one clear orange eye that walked into the menagerie. No one could say how the tiger got out in the menagerie. It was too bright, too bare. If the menagerie could, it would say 'tiger.' If the aviary could, it would lock its door. Its heart began to beat in rows of rising birds when the tiger came inside to wait.	The streets were paved with quiet rules and gray, Where every step was measured, safe, and true, Until the wind began to scream a new, Unruly song that tore the silence through. It started as a tremor in the bone, A sudden heat beneath the polished skin, As ancient fires woke within the stone, And let the wild and angry blood begin. No longer do they bow to laws of light, But claw at walls they once built high and steep, They tear the fabric of the perfect night, With promises they cannot keep or reap. The anger spreads like smoke through open doors, Infecting hearts that beat so calm before, Now pounding rhythms on the wooden floors, That echo violence waiting at the door. Beware the moment when the mask slips down, When reason yields to teeth and broken glass, For chaos wears a jagged, bloody crown, And leaves the civilized world to pass. There is no mending what the beast has done, No sweeping up the shards of shattered trust, Only the rising of a second sun, That burns the garden to a pile of dust.	Edged by ordered streets and Courtesy returned to returns of Courtesy entered by the Edge where Edged were once Edged Edges of Edges Entered Entering Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges Entered Edges E…	1	The streets were paved in ordered lines Where manners held the tongue And every heart in practiced pines Kept silent and unsung But then a wind from nowhere blew That smelled of ash and blood It slipped the locks we thought were new And rose like sudden flood It entered first in children's eyes With fangs of toothless growl Then seized the man who passed surprise To tear his hair and howl No law could hold the shaking hand No reason stop the scream As all the orderly demands Were drowned by primal dream The anger grew a burning root In gardens tended well It snapped the fence and shook the fruit From trees that knew no hell Now neighbors watch with hollow stares As kin begin to fight Forgetting all their careful cares In violence born of night Beware the edge where order bends When wildness claims the soul It leaves behind only broken ends And ruins taking toll The door once opened cannot close On those who taste the rage Only death and ruin grows Upon history's page So tremble when the impulse calls To throw aside the mask For freedom always comes with walls Of fire and blood-spill asked The city burns in orange light Where civilized men fell There is no coming back from night Once you have tasted hell The warning stands in ash and bone On pavement cracked and wet You are never quite your own When fury wins its bet Return to silence if you can Before the killing starts But know none other than man Will bear these violent hearts The damage waits for everyone Who thinks he holds control The wild has only just begun To eat away the whole Run while the roads are clear and straight Before the madness spreads Or else it seals your bloody fate Among the living dead For violence feeds on civilized A hunger sharp and keen It tears the very fabric twice To see what lies between Between the wolf and sheep Between the sane and mad Both fall before the slaughter leap Returning home as bad Go back to sleep and lock your door Hide all your trembling teeth But know the beast wants more More blood to wash the earth More pain to …	7	The gates were built of iron and of law To keep the creeping shadows at bay Where every step was measured on the floor And silence ruled the end of day Then came a wind that smelled of wet earth A sudden roar behind the glass It tore the careful fabric from its girth And watched the ordered structures pass First one man dropped his briefcase in the street His eyes went wide with ancient fear He felt the rhythm of a wild heart beat As reason shattered, crystal clear Then all around him others fell away Their masks of courtesy dissolved to dust They screamed the names they hid throughout the day And let their fury burn and rust The tables overturned in violent grace The quiet streets became a hunting ground No longer any safe or holy place Where mercy could be safely found For anger is a fire that feeds on control And wildness knows no master but the claw It strips the soul and leaves it bare and whole With nothing left to save or draw Beware the moment when the walls cave in When order bows to chaos' heavy hand For once the beast is loose within There is no way to understand The blood will stain the marble and the stone The children cry where laughter used to be You thought you built a world to call your own But nature takes back all it gave to thee	6	The paved streets held their breath in orderly rows Where silence was a law and anger unknown Until the wind began to scream through the glass And drag the roots of ancient forests home. It started as a tremor in the chest A sudden heat that burned the polite mask The suit, the tie, the careful, measured step Were swept away by currents dark and askew. No longer do they speak with soft intent But roar with teeth bared wide against the sky The neighbor's hand, once raised to wave hello Now clenches stone to crush the bone nearby. The garden walls are shattered into dust As logic breaks beneath the primal weight There is no reason left to hold the line Only the hunger of the feral state. Beware the moment when the leash gives way For once the wild has tasted blood and fear It will not stop until the city burns And nothing civilized remains standing here.	6	The pavement held a perfect, rigid line Where suits and silence marched in measured time Until the wind brought something old and raw That tore the seam of every social law. It started as a tremor in the chest A sudden heat that put the mind to test No longer bound by reason or by rule The beast within began to break its tool. They dropped their pens and shattered glass with hands That once had only signed and shook and planned The order fell like dust upon the floor As wildness kicked down every locked door. Now neighbors scream with eyes of burning red And strike the ones they thought were safe instead For anger is a fire that knows no wall And burns the strong before it makes them fall. Beware the day the cage begins to rust When civilization turns to iron dust For when the wolf comes walking through the street There is no mercy left for those who meet The violence that follows in its wake And leaves the broken city wide awake.	6	The city held its breath in polished stone Where silence ruled the streets and light was tuned To gentle hums of engines, soft and low Until the wind brought seeds from forests old. It started as a twitch beneath the skin A sudden heat where ice had reigned before The rules of order cracked like brittle glass As something ancient woke within the bone. They cast aside their suits and ties of gray And let the roar rise up to match the sky No longer bound by laws or quiet grace But driven by the pulse of wild desire. The anger spread like fire through dry grass Consuming patience, reason, and the calm It turned the neighbor into beast and foe And made the safety of the home a trap. Now walls are torn by hands that know no fear And pavement breaks beneath the stamping feet The damage done is deep and will not heal For once the wolf is loose, it cannot sleep. Beware the moment when the cage unlocks For chaos does not bargain or forgive It takes the life you built with careful hands And leaves only the ruin of the wild.	6	The glass towers stood in perfect rows With polished floors and quiet doors Where silence was a sacred vow And chaos knocked upon no shores Until the wind began to shift And bring the scent of rust and rain A primal hum, a sudden drift That turned the calm into a stain The suits untied their rigid ties As eyes grew wide with feral light They felt the beast beneath their eyes And shed the mask of day and night The orderly streets began to shake With hooves that tore the pavement deep No gentle hand could make them break The promise that the wild would keep Now fire dances through the hall Where rules once held the crowd at bay The echo of a distant call Has turned the peaceful into prey Beware the moment when it breaks For once the dam is torn apart There is no fix for what awakes Within the beating human heart	6	The polished floors reflect the neon calm, Until the wind shifts tone within the hall. A rustle breaks the silence like a psalm, And shadows wake beneath the porcelain wall. It starts as heat beneath a tailored coat, A tightening of chests that breathe too deep. The whispered word becomes a rising throat, And patterns woven make the unravel keep. They drop their scripts and let the feral show, Through veins where reason used to flow so clean. The eyes expand with ancient, golden glow, Reflecting things they've never truly seen. Now break the glass, now shatter quiet stone, For safety is a mask that tears away. The beast has found a place inside the throne, And drags the light into the darkest day. Beware the turn, the final, fractured beat, When gentle hands become the instruments. No plea can make this rising tide retreat, Or fix what chaos builds in moments spent. The structure crumbles under heavy paw, As polish turns to dust beneath the claw.	7	The polish帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮帮	1

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