Failed Another Test

Like fruits, shaken free by an impatient tree,
From the veil of its seed a growth of shrubs;
And ye be shrub; and thou flower,
Thou comest, the soothing flame, in gentle breeze
Of whirling in frantic dance 

Amidst the the wind-lashed cloud and infuriate shower,
Whilst trampled by thy turbulence doth
Scattered all thy fate in an eddying agony to death.
Yet in the tempest of mood,
Doth i write this trying to be Keats
But ye know how thy Keats ain’t
And ye Knowth the Best. 

Of yore in a sour wait of moment;
No lobby for playing ye charm,
For doth I not your prince charming;
Wait; and let live the life; for it unwraps
The hope of ye, fulfill.


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