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Nothing to Write

by | Nov 18, 2015 | Poetry | 0 comments

Like hearts
nothings can tell
when we do beat
or when we stop;
done a billion times
we cannot wait
for which one beat
might be the last;


words are flames
burning at times,
smoldering, sometimes,
yet never put out;
the pen in our hand
like an obelisk does stand
against all tests of time—
before nothing is left inside at all,
ait is not willing to drop.

October 22, 2015

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