Untitled Trash4
How can they
think to say
all the words
that they may?
And I am here
free from fear
telling tales
of yesteryear
For who am I?
To whom could my
hollow wit
and angst reserved
seem unfit?
Those with thoughts that feel
and minds that pine
for what they know not.
And isn't that the beauty,
and the form, and the
poetry? To pine for what
we know not?
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