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This is my poem/run on sentence for the book 'The Great Gatsby' by Scott Fitzgerald |
The withering rose, Dying with grace under that magnificent sign, Filling up the ash-covered ground with delight, And the whistful sound of Anything Goes drifting higher and higher-- The breeze entwining itself through the ashes, The ashes entwining itself through the breeze As ashes sing of the grim phantasm, Erasing the minds of the weak; Pulling them towards the twilight, A tug-of-war with my soul, As if it is just an illusion, forming translucent images in my mind, Forming and then replenishing, forming and replenishing-- Oh, how these images pervade my mind, Leaving these horrid dreams To last forever, lingering in hope As I one day hope to find my security without these dreams, But now it seems impossible to my blind eyes, And there is warmth in the distance, As I fall to my knees, And hense shall I exclaim: "For when I'm gone de with ashes, don't fill my grave with ashes, but instead fill it with the distant starlight that lingers of the true me." |
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