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words are offered
unyielding –
scrapped from pages
divine tho they be
split open
and scattered
are gift to the soul
with comfort to seek
verses and
rhyme sometimes raw
as blood turned
to ink
by the page
by the fall
who will remember
how it was then
we wrote
without thinking
without feeling
at all
what was meant
as a line spoke aloud
as truth
we were hoping to breathe
who shall give voice
to some other
we were –
poetry left the heart
to receive

. . .