The wondrous frigates

Burning fright
Because I will be patient
Strange as a life
Her futile quartz
I will be
broken, my tardy quartz

Torn as a realm
Rest whenever I will be new
Until I will cherish
her at dawn,
dying, running, like a pain.
Her heavy disgrace
I will be sweeping,
her little sleep

Telling eternity
Her blue quartz
Her sweet clover
Heavy as a
Enacting clover

I will be large, my frail fright
It's not soft or unshriven,
though in fathers of crews and wrecked
I will be
solemn, my patient
Poor as a flower

A thing, whose
death will be dusty,
will excuse forgetting
It's not careless or heavy, but in
ways of dews
and smiled
Partake as if I
will be bashful
Bubbling silver
Counting quartz

I will be wondrous, like
a frigate, her zealous
Like an ecstasy
It's not renowned or
heavenly, but in moors of sponges
and absorbed
Until in the
morning I will lick her
I will be steady, her
sterile drowsiness, like a wheel

topic: Sea athena past pallas hearts
generic open form stanza
source text: complete poems of Emily Dickinson

It would appear that most poems appear automatic and poorly written, but the odds of some good ones happening is definitely there...I don't think human writers are dispensable, yet!

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