Poetry generator

Every Lady Is A Sequence


How appreciating is the lyrical hole and it's cosmic thorn trees?
Shut out and closed off like a quiver.

The extinction rustles on its
motionless mare
pulsing cashmire rituals over the jungle.
Like the mourning ash of lunars
within the deep brown nose of the jungle.


The awe flutters in flying your brain.
The wind promising legumes are fell.


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