Thomas, I seem him he’s seated across
Next to him are his Fans or the Mistress.
Perpendeicular motions Bobby Burns.
Of force that from fuses draws the flower
I approach them from my own century
1914 the year he was born scent
“I am dumb to tell the crooked rose my life”
TO reveal from its Tresses the Blood Veins.
Of best laid Plans and of Masterly Mice.
To sin is to forgive as Metaphor
It retains its Original grim Cloak.
It Gathers in Pits of the Eyes Echoes
What sadness to Lament goes to Ether.
And burned in the Crosses of Easter.
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