If the words do come from within,
If the hand that writes is mine,
If the thoughts spelt make sense,
If my heart pours into each mark,
If all that I do were truly, truly
For me, then I could say with cheer
“I am not alone”. But the tragedy
Is in the final dot, for it speaks
Of the loss of clarity, hope and care,
For these scattered dregs of sweet life
Seem to be for another’s – not mine.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
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