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Soft Poet.


She marks me,

Like a stain that isn’t easy to come off

She haunts me like a ghost,

Like a child I fear her,

Afraid of perfection lost,

Purity she defiles, innocence she corrupts,

Her fragrance so vile, the fly in the olive oil,

Yet, in her own way she is shrewd,

Without her, beauty isn’t such a sight,

Without sorrow, joy would have no meaning,

Without hate, would you love with so much might,

It takes just her to make things right,

She defiles but in her own way exalts,

Aligning faults, redefining flaws,

There is beauty in her, beauty in imperfection

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