.. . . . . . … .. . . . . .. . . .. . . . . . . . … … .. ..

Poetry is not a collection of words
nor should it be read as such,
rather sipped as soft elixir
an upturned dram,
senses intermingling,
tingling upon tongue’s tip;
threading oriental silks
with the stochastic, flippant tail
of a gray weathered squirrel.

~ Azalea Hazelwood, author of graphite & graffiti

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