Two poets. Much in common. Much that's different.
One writes. The other replies or ignores and writes something completely different.
And so it goes until it stops.
The Long Path (TH)
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Neighbors take the long path to detour an uncomfortable moment not hearing the wailing permeating from ajar exits of a house where sorrow dwells.
No birds sing now in this landscape void of life, of love, of light. Nests dismantled, the tabernacle destroyed. Every voice lifted into one higher being straight from the page to the hand that wrote the book.
Back in place this lonely God picked himself up accepting his destiny Eyes blinded by Fate a new life never to blossom they worshipped what wasn't there lives spent stumbling around the desert looking for a Promised Land Promised much delivered only sand and terrible heat until one last time the sun closes under the sad horizon and fog becomes night becomes nothing in the end that final day done no birds sing now no tears shed.
Not a single tear left to shed on that final day in the end as the fog becomes night & our sun’s tiring iris decides to close one more time. The lonely god no longer without all the souls required for sweet nirvana. So many spent their lives worshipping what couldn’t be seen only to discover in this new life upon opening eyes after rebirth our destiny all along was to be picked back up as the many shards of a broken god & put back in place.
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