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Steam train conceit

My heart burns in the furnace that is my chest,

Boiling steam evaporates, becoming sorrowful tears.

This locomotive in desperation thunders,

Down crooked tracks, laid during your lies of years.

I’m now in sole charge of this fiery steed,

I’ll drive this train through realms of thought and deed.

My mind, a shrieked whistle blowing through the mist,

Unveiling those realms full of wonder, as yet missed.

The tracks, the verses laid with rhythmic grace,

Each line propels us forward, the poet's chosen pace.

Like pistons pumping, words in syncopation flow,

Churning emotions, as wheels on rails bestow.

The billowing steam, a plume of swirling dreams,

Whisking us far away, as reality redeems.

With metaphors as coal, I stoke the furnace bright,

Igniting passion's flame, forging words in flight.

Through valleys deep, and mountains towering high,

The verses climb to reach the vast poetic sky.

The hiss, the clank, a symphony of rhythmic art,

A language understood by the poet's tender heart.

For in the realm of verse, we transcend earthly bounds,

Guided by our muse, where inspiration resounds.

So let this steam train of words inspire and astound,

A poetic conceit, where imagination knows no bounds.

As I drive this locomotive with quill and ink,

The tracks unfurl, where the poet and his reader link.

In the realm of steam train driving, let not our souls collide,

In this metaphorical journey, worlds should only coincide.

And with each verse, let hearts and minds be riven,

Embracing the poetic conceit, where speeding dreams are driven.

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George Orwell 1903-1950

Young man. E. A. Blair. Literary genius An uncommon flair. Each page, inspired, His soul laid bare, Dystopia pondered From his polished wooden chair. He wrote of men Who lived without a prayer, P.S. B


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