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Write for no one but yourself.
Be amazed at those who follow
drinking from the ink well of tomorrow.

She found true happiness never close enough, swirling in distant yearnings, approaching, like the feel of wind or watching snow falling…

He finds her at her desk,
just some scribbles,
hieroglyphics to decipher
if she is even understandable,
worthwhile.

His footprints
seemingly absent
left behind,
desert winds as abstract wings
folly from the bird.
Visiting, unbecoming
taking space, reserved
to study circles
written in scrapings of rock.

He is close
watching from a distance
she knew him all along,
the hummingbird tongue
sipping nectar
under the moonlit sun.

Poetry

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