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Valley High
by Burt Rosenberg

Filled with the power that made Van Gogh great,
The Muse’s excuses abuse then abate,
Abiding abandonment,
In between eloquent
Impressions & sessions
Of learning too late
That every cliche was right all along,
While cleverness,
Ever less,
Longs to belong
To that which don’t fade, or falter, or flee,
Or flail, or fail to be fragrantly free
From swings and narrows of fortunes outrageous,
While wings of new sparrows spring up courageous,
But then find they fall into paying the price
That is charged when you’ve barged
Into betting on life
That is played with dice thrown down like a gauntlet,
thrown out like a challenge,
thrown up like a lunch,
thrown in like a towel,
thrown over like a lover who’s lost her allure,
And makes you hunger for less and makes way to make sure
That every surrender submits to the purge
That leaves the serene between numbness and surge,
For a change from a sorry sight to behold,
Into Light, through the dark starry night of the soul.