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Beauty
“A thing of beauty is a
joy forever
Its loveliness increases,
it will
Never pass into nothingness. . .”
So what Keats shadowed even
now springs true
As the day he seized from the
astonishing
Uncommon these astonishingly
common lines
It is far more than
Mere words on paper
More substantial than air
For when Beauty grieves
At the barbaric hands of
misery & misfortune
Poetry bound by blood voices
Its sufferings with dignity
& gracefulness
For IT is not less than all
our losses
Nor the loss of all our loves
A living hand reaching
outwardly
From icy nothingness
To remind us that IT is
But a shade
That must be given temporal
form
Knowing that everything
Finally fades to a calm
oblivion
Leaving only the faintest
trace
That must once again be
seized
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