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.
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