Poetry grips me and consumes,
Cautiously I trudge into,
Subjects varied among.
Nature envelopes me
Shrouding my thoughts in color,
Chronic recurrent words seem.
A lack of imagination,
And a fear of the taboo,
Curbs my assortment.
Never the sights of greatness,
Will I ever get to glimpse,
Nor the peaks of triumph.
A simple glee nonetheless,
Prevails in each completion,
Of every middling verse.
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