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.
A Thing to be Unwelcome (TH)
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Can I just sit alone watching them for just a moment without their feeling my unflinching gaze a thing to be unwelcome?
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.
A good heart betrays when their love goes cold under the ground and they wish for the sound of angels' wings that no longer beat We disguise visitations for rusty old chains that bind our feet and keep us Earthbound with only broken fences left to mend Not a single cloud to spare the blue sky Not a single tear to shed away the grief hoping for all that is pure to heal so we can take flight from daytime to the night
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