Poetry dies
In the poet’s eyes,
Or is it the skies
That turn black
So that he
And thee
Are unable to see?
Poetry Dies
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In The Early Morning
In the early morning,
Stretching, yawning
I see
The world drear
With all it’s fear.
Or is it me
I see?
What
What
Lies
Beneath
The
Pure
White
Sheet?
K Morris - Poet 