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.
We undo ourselves for a bargain & never mind the money we save as it falls through holey pockets, leaving a golden path of debt behind for tiny children to admire & maybe get something cheap yet so special from one of those machines with the game where everyone’s a winner all the time. Some take the joy one can get with little while others grow to become old, not able to find the strength for a smile as their greed for shiny coins chokes them like the once curious child they used to be.
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.
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