I write quite a lot of sonnets, and I think of them almost as prayers: short and memorable, something you can recite.
She stood upon a continent of ice, which sparkled between sea and sky, endless and dazzling, as though the world kept all its treasure there; a scale which balanced poetry and prayer.
Poetry and prayer are very similar.
What do I haveto help me, without spell or prayer,endure this hour, endless, heartless, anonymous,the death of love?
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