The Triolet Trail

poetinahat

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Everything I've gained, as a slave
promised, is more than I have earned:
Silk sheets to line a comfy grave.
Everything I've gained as a slave.

"Master!" he said, "Awake, and save
your soul... your childrens' souls!" - I turned.
Everything I've gained, as a slave
promised, is more than I have earned.
 
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poetinahat

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'Promised' is more than I have earned:
no thief can steal what he's given,
nor a child miss a toy returned.
'Promised' is more than I have earned.

But what you get is yours, I've learned.
A match you hold, unstruck: Even
'Promised' is more than I have earned.
No thief can steal what he's given.
 
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onestepp

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No thief can steal what he's given
his freedom, his country, his life
on course until ire has driven,
no thief can steal what he's given
can ask God to be forgiven
for deeds done at wrong end of knife,
no thief can steal what he's given
his freedom, his country, his life!
 

kborsden

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His freedom: his country, his life!
When no man has anything owned
and survives on the edge of a knife.
His freedom, his; country, his life,
whether for himself, his kids or wife
he cuts his hopes and dreams in stone,
his freedom, his country, his: life
when no man has anything owned.
 

CDSinex

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If I tweak this any more someone will beat me to it, so …

When no man has anything owned
just what he's bought, gathered, or made
for use in one lifetime alone—
when no man has anything. Owned
or owned-by's not carved on his stone
and nothing is taken to grave,
when no man has anything owned—
just what he's bought, gathered, or made.
 
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Ambrosia

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In the Castle, of course.
Just what he's bought, gathered, or made,
the paltry trousseau for her wedding day
remains empty of love--the price paid.
"Just what he's bought, gathered, or made!"
she snarls the words, her fortune laid
amidst dirty fingernails encrusted with clay.
Just what? He's bought, gathered, or made
the paltry trousseau for her wedding day.
 

Perscribo

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The paltry trousseau for her wedding day
ripples by the seaside. Caught in the wind,
one vow sets out to be the first to fray
the paltry trousseau for her. Wedding day
or not, a heart persists once it betrays.
It was not reticence but doubt that thinned
the paltry trousseau. For her wedding day
ripples by the seaside, caught in the wind.
 

B.D. Eyeslie

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Ripples by the seaside, caught in the wind,
a tower gives way to the tides.
Thick castle wall the Atlantic has thinned
ripples by the seaside. Caught in the wind
before black pitch and the heavens opened,
I held fast hope God would provide
ripples by the seaside. Caught in the wind,
a tower gives way to the tides.
 

William E. Harlan

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A tower gives way to the tides.
Bodies like water, men borne to die.
If there's a cause or not, or a lie,
A tower gives way to the tides.

They'll never know or wonder their whys.
Their honor means more than their lives.
A tower gives way to the tides.
Bodies like water, men borne to die.
 

Perscribo

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Bodies like water. Men born to die
in its depths are drunken. Mermaids
lithesome are more apt to swim by
bodies like water men. "Born to die!"
--the verdict every scribe will cry.
Mythic how history portrayed
bodies; like water men born to die.
In its depths are drunken mermaids.
 

jnddepew

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In its depths are drunken mermaids
Writhing in orgy's ecstasy
As the blue-green light, gasping, fades
In its depths are drunken mermaids

We never feel his harmless raids,
Still, empty--unspoken, we see.
In its depths are drunken mermaids
Writhing in orgy's ecstasy.
 
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kborsden

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Writhing in orgy's ecstasy,
no time for any wonder—
nor life's odd complexity
writhing; in orgies, ecstasy
bound by fearless simplicity,
my pelvis full of thunder.
Writhing (in orgies), ecstasy?
No time for. Any wonder?
 
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Perscribo

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The hours of the day aren't mine.
The maps I choose to wind I ink;
sour. In vacant blinks I shine
the hours. Of the day, aren't mine
the contracts to which I resign?
My gyrus brain folds in and shrinks
the hours of the day. Aren't mine
the maps I choose to wind? I ink.
 
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onestepp

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The maps I choose to wind, I ink
directions or routes to follow
with a highlighter colored pink.
The maps I choose wind, I ink.
Ink spills produced another link.
Looked long, hard, and dryly swallowed.
The maps I choose to wind. I ink
directions or routes to follow.
 
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kborsden

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Directions or routes to follow
along roads that no one remembers
lead to memories in borrowed
directions or routes. To follow
them through an early September
gives depth to distance hollowed—
(directions or routes to follow)
along roads that no one remembers.
 

Perscribo

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Along roads that no one remembers
I transcribe the signs we left for the fire;
words and symbols buried under embers.
Along roads; that no one remembers
the snow that put them out in December
makes me morose. Brand new forest transpires
along roads that no one remembers.
I transcribe the signs we left for the fire.
 
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kborsden

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I transcribe the signs we left for the fire
with hope one day to remember this place—
though through the flames, a burial pire
I transcribe: the signs we left. For the fire
mislaid our oneness and doused our desire,
while its heated, curled sigils washed my face.
I transcribe the signs we left for the fire
with hope one day to remember this place.
 
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Perscribo

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With hope, one day, to remember this place
I took photos of the blossoms. You bent
down to save a few buds; fallen, disgraced;
with hope one day to Remember. This place
was scrapped into pages. Without a trace,
cherry stains the assembly. I assent
with hope one day to remember: this place
I took, photos of the blossoms you bent.
 
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kborsden

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I took photos of the blossoms you bent
that day on the death of the season—
and as you smiled, without pretence
I took photos. Of the blossoms, you bent
only the few that circled our tent.
What was it that gave you cause and reason?
I took photos of the blossoms you bent
that day on the death of the season.

That day on the death of the season,
what pushed you to act with such discontent?
What was it that gave you cause and reason
that day on the death of the season?
Could your lack of pretense have been treason,
or were you marking our end at the tent
that day? On the death of the season,
what pushed you to act with such discontent?
 
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B.D. Eyeslie

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What pushed you to act with such discontent?
Falling souls tighten the rope of reason.
Were your words twisted to misrepresent
what pushed you? To act with such discontent
and ignoring our official dissent,
you are hereby found guilty of treason.
What pushed you to act? With such discontent,
falling souls tighten the rope of reason.
 
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kdnxdr

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falling souls tighten the rope; of reason,
there's little use. it's fear that leads the way:
only patriots stand their ground, cowards live by treason.
falling souls tighten the rope of reason.

every age has it's darkest season,
when evil has it's sway;
falling souls tighten the rope of reason,
there's little use. it's fear that leads the way.
 
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PandaMan

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There's little use, it's fear that leads the way,
so feel the touch, wet skin of your desire,
that once you taste, you'll never want to say
there's little use, it's fear that leads the way.
Your touch will rise, you'll always want to stay.
If you must choose and choose to ease the fire,
there's little use, it's fear that leads the way.
So feel the touch, wet skin of your desire.
 

B.D. Eyeslie

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So feel the touch (wet skin). Of your desire,
water color paints the perfect sunrise.
A hundred steps up the lighthouse spire,
so feel the touch. Wet skin of your desire;
a handrail and a hand leads you higher.
The endless blue horizon will baptize,
so feel the touch, wet. Skin of your desire
(water color) paints the perfect sunrise.
 
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William E. Harlan

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Water color paints, the perfect sunrise,
A cup of coffee and peace of mind.
I've spent enough, too much, of my time.
Water color paints, the perfect sunrise.

Right now it's just hues and values and line.
Left the clock and the phone and the keyboard behind.
Water color paints, the perfect sunrise,
A cup of coffee and peace of mind.