Shades of Artists

Poetry is more like pottery

Like the potter who holds and idea,

Vague but strong in mind, a poet

Buries and idea stinking like blood

Beneath every stems and cells of body

Both artisans bear a hell, hot and humid

Have nerves like umbilical cords

Deep inside them renounced their joy

To give birth to the eternal joy

Behold by all but them with bliss

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