Now That I’m Old

i know poets that became poets

to work with despair, one so big

they’re lucky to find themselves

in the same room with it.

 

the same room with it at

dark, with heavy curtains,

or light, too much light, and spotless.

they’d die happy then

 

to say all is forgiven,

and if they’re really brave

they could tell the truth,

that they were so small.

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3 thoughts on “Now That I’m Old

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