Art In Heaven
I pity when the poetry runs dead.
When paper's not around.
When thoughts and words are all we have
and feet are on the ground.
When nature's made in all emotions
and records fallen leaves.
When nothing more than art in Heaven
should bring about reprieves.
A world where only Father knows
it's beauty to an end.
Where all might be apart of it
and have it whole to mend.
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