Alas,

My words are at a loss,
Old hearts buried in sand
While new ones stopped
Without a tender hand.

But poetry is a disease of stage-
An intriguing infection.
My mind memory plagues-
By reading reflections
Looking for you
In every page.

The aggravation,
From a loss of motivation.
How can I write real
When I need that right feel?

I wait to end,
And wait for cardiac hunger,
To hear the fate of far black thunder.
I hate to pretend.
I’m never satisfied,
Without a woman to be my spouse.


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