6 Ik
White Rhythmic Wind
Poetess I call myself as
Lines I rhyme
Fine Phrases do I form---
My Thoughts evolve
In parcèd Time
Rhythms sweet are born---
When I dare
Disclose to you
A rare or radiant Verse---
You see the Light
In darkest Night---
The lifting of a Curse.
©Kleomichele Leeds
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