The Triolet Trail

kkbe

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Engulfs the landscape with a breath of fire;
such are the dreams of our new toddler king:
with hate and fear to fuel our funeral pyres,
engulfs the landscape with a breath of fire
beyond the pale. Such are his heart's desires:
he takes it all, then destroys everything;
engulfs the landscape with a breath of fire.
Such are the dreams of our new toddler king.
 
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Thecla

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Such are the dreams of our new toddler king
To let the world ring with his great ‘I am
The fount from which all edicts spring’
(Such are the dreams of our new toddler king)
‘To my feet, minions, your tributes bring’
(Though in a rage he’ll fling them from his pram)
Such are the dreams of our new toddler king
To let the world ring with his great ‘I am!’
 
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Ambrosia

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To let the world ring with his great ‘I am!’,
he scourges the earth, the lamb, and the air.
There isn't a group that he will not scam
to let the world ring with his great ‘I am!’.
Sycophants gather to join in his jam.
He puts his heel on the poor in his care
to let the world ring with his great ‘I am!’.
He scourges the earth, the lamb, and the air.
 

Perscribo

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He scourges the earth, the lamb, and the air
with breath that reeks of wolfish consumption.
In his tower so high, deaf to despair,
he scourges the earth. The lamb and the air
are his commodities; no longer shared.
"This land is my land" - the fat presumption.
He scourges the earth, the lamb, and the air
with breath that reeks of wolfish consumption.
 

Thecla

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With breath that reeks of wolfish consumption,
It’s time to take stock and start out afresh:
Fluoride and flossing don’t take much gumption.
With breath that reeks of wolfish consumption,
Cut back on booze – nor is it presumption
To say eat far more veggies and less flesh.
With breath that reeks of wolfish consumption
It’s time to take stock, and start out afresh.
 

Perscribo

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It’s time to take stock and start out afresh.
Your rhyme. Your seed. Your keen pentameter.
Cells with resounding heart you must refresh.
It’s time to take stock and start. (Out afresh
of ideas, I stake what I enmesh,
extend and shake for flakes of Demeter.)
It's time to take. Stock and start out afresh
your rhyme. Your seed: your keen pentameter.
 
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Perscribo

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Your rhyme, your seed, your keen pentameter
takes valiant lead. In times of apathy
remind naive goslings: do not peter
your rhyme, your seed. Your keen pentameter
draws the daisies broken stanzas deter.
Color graying mountain sides gallantly.
Your rhyme. Your seed. Your keen pentameter.
Take valiant lead in times of apathy.
 

kkbe

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"Let's resurrect this bad boy!" she whispered tentatively.


Take valiant lead in times of apathy.
Indeed, these are the times that try men's souls:
turbulent times, 'alt-facts' twisted, and blatant fallacies.
Take valiant lead in times of apathy;
the reigns are loose (as are the man's own faculties).
Stand up! As long as 45 controls,
take valiant lead. In times of apathy,
indeed, these are the times that try men's souls.


 

kkbe

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Indeed, these are the times that try men's souls
and time is running out to make amends.
But still we grouse, and spew our vitriol.
Indeed. These are the times that try men's souls;
instead of love, it's venom we extol.
Our animus will kill us in the end;
indeed, these are the times that try men's souls.
And time is running out to make amends.
 
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CDSinex

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:flag: I’m tired of rewriting this. It’s far from perfect, and I’ve tweaked the refrain lines, but I no longer care.

Your time is running out to make amends,
the days ahead are fewer than behind.
With oh so much to do before this ends,
the time is running out. To make amends
you start a list of relatives and friends
you might have wronged. Though for many you find
the time has long run out to make amends:
the days ahead far fewer than behind.
 

Ambrosia

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The days ahead (far fewer than behind)
leave me fearing mortality's bequeath.
The hunt of pale riders brings to mind
the days ahead. Far fewer than behind
are nights of love and drinks graced with rind.
All that's left is the laying of the wreath,
the days ahead far fewer than behind.
Leave me--fearing mortality's bequeath.
 

poetinahat

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leave me fearing mortalities: bequeath
your slovenly buttoned down-gray mirage
to shirtsleeve deacons, all dandruff and teeth.
leave me, fearing. mortalities bequeath

time to the living, off-balance beneath
the burden of their surviving: 'dommage..'
leave me, fearing mortalities! bequeath
your slovenly buttoned down-gray mirage!


: C'est dommage = "that's too bad"
 
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poetinahat

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your slovenly buttoned-down gray mirage
futile as a haircut and mute as eyes
engulfs my dream. here comes sleep, and i dodge
mudfooted, too late, the smeary barrage

of half-known names and noises, a collage
of non-regrets, in which i recognise
your slovenly buttoned-down gray mirage,
futile as a haircut and mute as eyes.
 
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kkbe

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Futile as a haircut and mute as eyes,
blink once. Blink twice; she blinks again
and utters naught, for words are lies:
futile as a haircut. And mute, as ayes
and nays puncture the silence. Dies
are cast, as are the souls of men.
Futile as a haircut. And mute as eyes.
Blink once. Blink twice. She blinks again.


 

Perscribo

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Blink once. Blink twice. She blinks again.
Green to twilight. Yellow to red.
Squint through the streets of painted rain.
Blink once. Blink twice. She blinks again.
Fight back the itch to ascertain
which North Wind has fluttered her head.
Blink once. Blink twice. She blinks again.
Green to twilight. Yellow to red.
 

kkbe

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Green to twilight. Yellow to red.
Pick a pin and stick it in.
Grace and absolution, dead.
Green to twilight, yellow to red:
mercy choked and loathing fed.
(How can revenge be a sin?)
Green to twilight. Yellow to red.
Pick a pin and stick it in.
 

poetinahat

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Pick a pin and stick it in
scratch a number on the door
suck the bottle, feel the gin
pick a pin and stick it in

matted hair and clammy skin,
no relief from the downpour
Pick a pin and stick it in
scratch a number on the door
 
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kkbe

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Scratch a number on the door:
eons. Living, not alive
(cruel Lestat is keeping score).
Scratch a number on the door;
stay his hand at twenty-four!
Stake my heart at twenty-five!
Scratch a number on the door,
eons living not alive.
 
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poetinahat

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Eons living, not alive
(not in any accepted sense
at least). I am not young, and I've
passed the bright days slouched in a cave.
eons living, not alive.


Eons living, not alive -
not in any accepted sense.
All for fear of fearing, I've
eons living, not alive.

This weekend, I'll go for a drive
to the coast. I've not done that since
eons. Living, not alive -
not in any accepted sense.
 
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Perscribo

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Not in any accepted sense,
uncommon truth bleeds down the walls.
Soldiers hot-step the consequence
(not in any accepted sense).
Feeble friends freeze in reticence.
Fiery hell should make a snowball
not in any accepted sense
(uncommon). Truth bleeds down the walls.
 
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poetinahat

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Dang - I messed up. Thank you, Ambrosia, for picking up my error!

Oh well - next time.
 

kkbe

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Uncommon truth bleeds. Down the walls,
rivulets run. Her black mascara
follows suit; her aching grief, a pall
uncommon. Truth bleeds down the walls;
her anguish, a constricting caul.
Dolor: grief hollows her. Caldera.
Uncommon truth bleeds down the walls.
Rivulets run her black mascara.
 
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poetinahat

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rivulets run her black mascara
into hieroglyphs, paint-fresh but
grim as headstone rubbings, where a
rivulet's run her black mascara
through the fault lines of tomorrow.
soft as a fold, sleek as a cut:
rivulets run her black mascara
into hieroglyphs. paint, fresh. but...
 

kkbe

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Into hieroglyphs, paint fresh. But
in the end, even the mighty fall.
Heavy hands paint myths cut
into hieroglyphs, paint fresh but
as they wield their brushes, in their guts
they know that time will do them all
in, too. Hieroglyphs, paint fresh but
in the end, even the mighty fall.
 
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