Dead Letters
In the twilight of the day
when I'm worn to spent to play
I try to write to no avail
the page is bright, but
the ink is pale
so the straight flat papers crumbles
as my thoughts wander and stumble
on a tight wad paper ball
to be a secret after all
tossed into a small round basket
a sad but fitting poem's casket
As these thoughts now fade in time
without reason, without rhyme
might return soon resurrected
but again by night rejected
so I think I'll wait till morning
and cease this awful yawning
and dream of things to write
of thoughts which haunt the night
Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2017
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