Having scaled the mountains of the moon
with no sherpa for a guide,
having eaten steak and kidney pie
in the depths of despair
in a diminutive pub in Soho,
having consumed five-alarm chili
at The Brimstone Club
on All Saint’s Eve,
having wandered at random
through the endless galleries
of The Louvre on a wet afternoon,
having crawled the Continent
for love, for fury, for nothing
more than an impulse of the times,
he became a brash statistic
in the sordid history of absinthe,
all the fascinating sensations
of deranged hallucination
and his unspent masterpieces
revolving in his head.
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Dear Poeter, No one can
Dear Poeter, No one can define the mind of an artist. If not the smile of a flower, the cry of a leaf is a storehouse of emotions stored in the human mind. The artist in this world is a classic marvel who gives an innovative woman an imaginary face and a place to live in a world of sculpture. This poem really impressed me. All The Best My Dear Friend; Write More Congratulations
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