Losing Precious Things

Poetry speaks to me no more

Nor does it cradle me in my sleep

Or warms me in the coldest nights.

Poetry speaks to me no more

Not since happiness came,

Not since this happiness left

Stealing away with the draft

Of tropic winds.

For so long now, poetry has been silent

To me

And now desolate, perhaps

Poetry will come again

perhaps,

perhaps.

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About kyogakura
Bored 95% of the time.

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