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this man tries hard
      with word to weave
         his loves clear worn
   plain ‘pon his sleeve

      not meant as gripes
         midst rationed fears
      but more shall quell
   those metered tears

         his pen thus bleeds
   for loves quite lost
one heart born bare
      for scheming’s cost

   still oft’ he dreams
now chances slim
      someone will write
         sweet poems …

for him.








Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden

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