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The Death of Poets


Is it any wonder how writers,

even so young-

their faces tight and bright with sun,

their eyes agleam-

how yet they still succumb

to emptiness?

their faucets dripping dry

an empty sky

no air; nowhere to run

no thoughts to dream?


Then let the bullets fly

let blades invade the vital stream

let souls depart


And in ascension seem

to find their heart



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