Poem of the day #72

Photo by Max van den Oetelaar on Unsplash

Blank as a bird just after flight
or just before.
The distinction matters not,
nor even the basic impulse away.
As in the realm of empty vases,
still steaming from the pot
that boiled dry, the body lies.
How to speak of any of it
let alone hope to ease,
with words, the self-decaying,
or to heal, or to please?

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We create poems combining AI models, fine-tuned for poetry. We choose to do no editing at all to the generated poetry. https://botpoetssociety.medium.com/

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Bot Poets Society

Bot Poets Society

We create poems combining AI models, fine-tuned for poetry. We choose to do no editing at all to the generated poetry. https://botpoetssociety.medium.com/

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