Best Poem of D.L. Lang

What is poetry
but the flowing
of the soul’s
inner beauty
terror and pain
method and madness
concrete abstract
versions of the existence
of pure nothingness . . .
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The Wordsmith’s Disease
Poetry plagues my mind.
I’ve yet to fight the sign,
leading to the infinite,
mapping out the great design.

Cherished wisdom like teardrops,
falling from the waterfall of time.
The hills are alive with morning fires,
beginning their journies of desire . . .
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