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Found Poetry 1,005


in death art a fortune
is like talking to a back

you can call on me whenever
words running in circles
gradually rise
on their own air
the fragrance of failures
settles on chance and success

the triangle is family, friends, and work
the lines are you
the imaginary points making up the lines
no one knows what those are

This poem was created from Walden by Henry Thoreau. Click here to get Walden.

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