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No Thoughts of Love
Deep and blue
The morning
Is a summer masterpiece
But not to him,
His days are black and alone
Lying
On the couch
By a screeching tv
As his hand
More feeble today
Feels for the wine bottle
Knowing
Through the fog of it all
The decades
Had hardened his heart
Into a premature tombstone
Where no thoughts of love
Could slip past the armed guards
Of ancestral ghosts.
Copyright ©
Kathryn Sweeney
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