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Poet
Words my mouth cannot find to speak
Flow from my pen with grace and ease.
Fated to the page, give me ink
To fight and battle with the quill.
With banners of beauty and truth
Facing, fearless, each hill I charge;
Parry and thrust with slashing words.
Never surrender to sorrow
Lest I might doubt and toss words off
As Doc McCrae in crumpled note
His aide saved so poppies still blow
Among the crosses row on row.
Infuse my pen with worthy points,
That endure like Frost and Villon;
Yet if my words can touch but one;
None for myself but only thee.
Copyright ©
David Drowley
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