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The Poet Disheveled (for amenOra)

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  • The Poet Disheveled (for amenOra)

    I awake in the frigid cold
    Morose yet joyful both squat
    In my nomadic tent

    For 3 days the ice storm
    Drilled holes in my shelter
    I listen to their drips

    I must build a small fire
    To keep shivering at bay
    I look at my aged face

    In a small hand mirror
    My white hair grown wild and
    Askance like a snow drift

    I am truly tired of words
    That litter my mind
    I will take a vow of silence

    Luxuriate and do
    Nothing but dwell mindfully
    In the world’s mystery
    Last edited by Tanner; 04-16-2018, 02:41 PM.

  • #2
    I love the mystery, it seems like a fount -- or something. Your poetry takes me there, surprises. In this one I see a frame of -- candid -- you! A writer (a poet) tired of words. I sure know the feeling. For like a day only, though, right?

    It always seems to come back, and I thank Heaven for that!

    Comment


    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      PS I am touched you mentioned me!
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