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The Taste of Carnations January 9, 2015

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Odd, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Tonight of all nights I would hear the saddest songs.

This wine of the Alicante,
dark as blood spilt by night,
sharp as flint, a spark
in the sparkle with the savor
of must fresh from dusty feet
walked hard and long buried.

I would taste carnations
fed with the blood of bulls.

Tonight I would hear the saddest songs
because joy is a wind
that blows hot and cold
but sadness outlasts empires.

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