My sorrow
has a direction...
flaming lilies,
dark feathers,
the depthless shore,
the unwritten word.
It is not enough
to love a page
of verbs, of ink,
of grave-
the topsoil.
Perhaps, you
were right...
poets
should never
mate-
what of their
offspring?
1 comment:
I like this a lot except it doesn't end quite right for me but still a nice poem.
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