Has the time
	For poetry
	Come again?
	Does
	The Old Man's pen
	Yet have things
	To say
	That the Youngster's
	Quill knew
	Nothing of?
	Perhaps.
	My heart
	Is full
	Of inexpressible things—
	No, things
	Not inexpressible,
	But rather
	So replete
	With longing
	That words
	Can scarcely
	Inscribe them.
	Living
	Both fills one up
	And drains
	One dry—
	Squeezed void
	Of love, of joy,
	Of certainty,
	Of all once
	Longed for,
	Once hoped for.
	Dull resignation
	Remains,
	And a dead
	Curiosity
	About what
	Still may lie ahead.
	It will not be
	What once
	Was so ardently
	Desired.
	It will not be
	Anything at all
	Expected.
	It will
	Simply be.

5/4/09

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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