A Poem
Truest as the love from the heart that beats from our breasts,
That the daughter of mine, Matilda, is sick to the wonders,
who lies stoned cold and emotionally depressed watching the skies
grow bluer and nature's green so bold as she lays to rest.
Her violet eyes, now to gray, tells that I can merely scarce the pain,
and as truest of the love that beats from the heart in our breasts,
that soul does crave a wondrous treasure that rings so
Bold but timid and yet it speaks all in rhymes.
She lips out the words, "Read me a poem just one last time"
And my fingers roam amongst a page,
So soft as I read, "Nothing Gold can Stay."
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