The Strange Longing of a Contented Man
I wonder
if all the poetry is gone.
I've stolen from fiction
and narrated outlandish
but rational thoughts.
Where is the poetry?
So grounded am I
in acceptable habit I call
happiness that
the dancing doesn't come.
I don't see the longing posture of the trees,
and calcified the sad
memories. I almost want them back.
Maybe I need
another broken heart.
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