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Jack Frost

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With the tallow melted and the wick nil,
  Jack Frost tat lace on the window sill.
Woos plant a swoon on this bard’s poetic archer,
  Last breath of verse for this scorcher.
As the ashes on the grate kindle a spark,
  On the nib of quill before final dark.
Bellows of the winds carol sweet delicacy,
  Like a lute with a spot, gin in my mediocrity,
And as I scribe last, my spoken token.
  A flask of sensuality you served me last night,
Woos plant a swoon on a this bard’s poetic archer,
  For on this sheepskin I honor my love,
As the archangel stands above.
  The quietness of my spirit, just passing,
With the tallow melted and the wick nil,
  The silence of my pen, standing still.

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