Play across
	The bedroom wall,
	West winds
	Blow the leaves
	Of fall.
	And if poems
	Are gone,
	Is there anything
	Left at all?
	The rooms
	Seem so empty now,
	So cold and dark
	And far
	From how, once,
	Full of beauty,
	Truth, love--
	Every youthful vow
	To live a life
	Pledged to good
	And happiness
	Rang through halls
	Where now
	Only dust and echo falls.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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