Mourn the Poems
a page is such a cold place
pen has a sage who delves for inner face truth's
the page entrances with silent mocking
word thought dances just outside the blocking
the sage thirsty now craves sweet success
but only digs graves in the sheets of paper white
mourn the poems never born
sorrowful worlds in the words
sage now sleepwalking
his empty words never talking
Copyright © Mark Junor | Year Posted 2014
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