The Citadel
A citadel of secrets on a dry and dusty plain
As I journey on always protecting the flame
What do I talk about to fan the dying ember
Of times when I was happy and want to always remember
Time is such a fleeting thing
So the poets want to bring
But what does it say to you
When you think it through
So here I am as the citadel
And wondering what the hell
Do I start again even though it is so late
As all things inside of me are left to contemplate.
© Paul Warren Poetry
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