The Triolet Trail

kborsden

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Wandering the night will leave you stuck
between the believed and beguiled.
Until you discover true luck
wandering, the night will leave you—stuck
so fate's falsehoods can run amuck
and leave chance further wither while
wandering. The night will leave you, stuck
between the believed and beguiled.
 

B.D. Eyeslie

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Between the believed and beguiled,
your judgment has surely left you
stranded like an innocent child.
Between the believed and beguiled,
your reaction has been quite mild
though you'll always be lost, on cue,
between the believed and beguiled.
Your judgment has surely left you.
 
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Perscribo

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Your judgement has surely left. You
with that bottle! You could have kept
the cap on in lieu of what blew
your judgement. Has Shirley left you?
It's no wonder your veins are blue.
What other provisions, except
your judgement, has Shirley left you
with? That bottle you could have kept.
 

B.D. Eyeslie

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With that bottle you could have kept
the genie with riches inside.
While your "friends" in the bat cave slept
with that bottle, you could have kept
him hidden out of sight; except,
you couldn't find cover to hide
with. That bottle--you could have kept
the genie with riches inside.
 
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kdnxdr

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the genie, with riches inside,
holding the bottle before my tired eyes,
"rub it!", your wishes are mine to abide,
the genie with riches - inside.
"let me out!" a cry from which I can't hide,
there's no escape from this dream I despise;
the genie, with the riches inside,
holding the bottle before my tired eyes.
 
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poetinahat

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Holding the bottle before my tired eyes,
a stranger with young hair and old hands:
worried, pale. Sentimental and wise,
holding the bottle before my tired eyes.
The liquor stings my lips. I realise
I've been struck: DONT WALK, the signal demands.
Holding the bottle before my tired eyes,
a stranger. With young hair and old hands.
 

Perscribo

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A stranger, with young hair and old, hands
each ward a wig. Which covers? The black
or the grey?--or some mixture of sands?
A stranger with young hair and old hands
massages each bald scalp; understands
this kind of loss that some hairless lack.
A stranger with young hair (and old), hands
each ward: a wig which covers the black.


Sorry for horrible last line (...no--wait--I'm not sorry..hahaha)
 
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kdnxdr

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each ward a wig, which covers the black,
they're fueled by the hope that images change;
woman of crime, come under attack,
each ward a wig, which covers the black.
with womanly senses, they want to go back,
hoping their looks to nostalgically arrange,
each ward a wig, which covers the black
they're fueled by the hope that images change.
 
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poetinahat

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They're fueled by the hope that images change
their subjects, all these erstwhile Peter Pans
and would-be Dorian Grays. They are strange.
They're fueled by the hope that images change
and, like dead brown leaves ascending, re-hinge
to branches, re-green their fuses and spans.
They're fueled by the hope that images change
their subjects, all these erstwhile Peter Pans.
 
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poetinahat

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"There, subjects: all these erstwhile Peter Pans.
Eternal youth, at last. . . beneath headstones."
The Grand Examiner nods. He understands
their subjects, all these erstwhile Peter Pans.
He sighs and mourns the misbegotten plans
of Youth and the silence of unheard moans.
Their subjects, all these erstwhile Peter Pans:
Eternal youth, at last, beneath headstones.
 
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kdnxdr

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eternal youth, at last, beneath headstones,
all the hoopla laid to rest; there's simply nothing left
our life is sealed, remembered in stories, old bones;
the silence of our lives has taken on such grey tones.
if you hear a creak from us, ignore our moans,
since life has stopped, of vigor we are bereft;
eternal youth, at last, beneath headstones,
all the hoopla laid to rest, there's simply nothing left.
 
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kborsden

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All the hoopla laid to rest (there's simply nothing), left
to the edge of the playfield and the line,
will show hoopla can be quite deft to test
all the hoopla laid to rest there: simply nothing left
for any sin-binned cheat to feel bereft
when off the pitch and serving time each time
all the hoopla laid to rest. There's simply nothing left
to the edge of the playfield and the line.
 

kdnxdr

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to the edge of the playfield, and the line
we walk as mortals until we think we are gods;
upon the field, lights shower as devine -
to the edge of the playfield, and the line!
adored as perfection, our egos allign,
the lust of human weakness applauds.
to the edge of the playfield, and the line
we walk as mortals until we think we are gods.
 
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kborsden

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Excellent line!

We walk as mortals until we think we are gods;
we strive to touch the sky. Before we fear falling,
we live between golden handshakes, winks and nods;
we walk as mortals. Until we think we are gods,
we are bound to routine—what we have, and have not.
We define ourselves by names and supposed calling:
we walk as mortals until we think, "we are gods".
We strive to touch the sky before we fear falling.
 

B.D. Eyeslie

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We strive to touch the sky before, we fear, falling
into the hole they dug for us late in the night.
Scratching at the lawn afore the master's calling,
we strive to touch the sky before .... We fear falling
as our widows and orphans adore us, bawling
late in the bloom of departure. Gone is the might
we strive to touch: the sky, before we fear, falling
into the hole they dug for us late in the night.
 
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kdnxdr

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into the hole they dug for us late in the night
we lie; a funeral pyre, a monument to hate,
our deaths become trophies, though there was no fight;
into the hole they dug for us late in the night.
morbid testimony, our ashes a blight,
though our innocense and courage will never abate;
into the hole they dug for us late in the night
we lie, a funeral pyre, a monument to hate.
 
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kborsden

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We lie. A funeral pyre, a monument to hate
is the only trace in all that remains
of our love. Inflamed behind pearly gates
we lie, a funeral pyre. A monument to hate
is erected to resurrect our fate.
For the sake of un-tarnishing our names,
we lie, 'a funeral pyre, a monument too'. Hate
is the only trace in all... that remains.
 

poetinahat

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is the only trace in all that remains
seen in tea leaves or the yolks of fried eggs?
what mystic secrets lurk in necktie stains?
is the only trace in all that remains
lost with soap powder, swept down laundry drains?
silent garments, odd socks, hang from clothes pegs.
is the only trace in all that remains
seen in tea leaves or the yolks of fried eggs?
 

B.D. Eyeslie

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Seen in tea leaves or the yolks of fried eggs,
in fact everywhere I look, you are there.
Why are you haunting me? The question begs.
See'n in tea leaves or the yolks of fried eggs,
your vision is surely clouded with dregs.
You must be a blond, for there is a hair
seen in tea leaves, or the yolks of fried eggs,
in fact everywhere I look. You are there.
 
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poetinahat

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In fact, everywhere I look, you are there.
There you are: everywhere. In fact, I look.
You are. I look there. In fact, everywhere.
I look everywhere; you are in fact there.
You, in fact, are everywhere. I look there.
There, everywhere you in fact are, I look.
In fact, everywhere, I look. You are there.
There. You are everywhere, in fact. I look.
 
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Perscribo

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There! You are everywhere. In fact, I look
at this Cooler we thrive on. Each new post
is pulp on our screen. You plug your new book
there. You are, everywhere, "in." Fact: I look
at where you've been with your words--how they shook
you--and I care. Seen as a revived ghost
there you are. Everywhere, in fact, I look.
At this Cooler, we thrive on each new post.
 
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B.D. Eyeslie

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At this Cooler, we thrive on each new post,
unlike the web sites which gnaw at your bones
with their sparkling teeth. We smile at our host
at this Cooler. We thrive on each new post--
until offended; then the scribes, we roast.
However, it's forbidden to throw stones
at this Cooler. We thrive on each new post,
unlike the web sites which gnaw at your bones.
 

kborsden

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Unlike the web, sites which gnaw at your bones
most commonly reject the notion of value—
almost as if willing themselves alone,
unlike the web. Sites which gnaw at your bones
have something in common with dusty tomes
in how they drive the reader to say their 'adieus',
unlike the web-sites. Which gnaw at your bones
most commonly? Reject, the notion of value?
 

kdnxdr

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most, commonly reject the notion of value;
it's only a life, what is lost?
but an embryo can tell you,
most, commonly reject the notion of value.
without an advocate, the truth is construed,
with every abortion, a person is tossed.
convenient indulgence is the social venue;
it's only a life, what is lost?
 
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B.D. Eyeslie

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It's only a life; what is lost,
and how will we remember thee?
Of all your sacrifice and cost--
it's only a life. What is lost
are the grisly facts which we glossed
over, knighting you by degree.
It's only a life. What is lost
and how? Will we remember thee?