Poets reflection

Simplicity of the poets brush

as the air is to the quill

a voice abused by many

to the point of overkill,

when the prose are moved to words

where waves are many crashing

then blood will stain the page

and the heart will take its lashing,

this is not frivolity

poets don’t express for game

each moment is a moment lost

every sunrise has its wane.

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