The Poet


I would sit upon a wooden bench
a candle flickering across my shadow
Ink stained hands penning upon a yellow parchment
Crabbed text telling stories of love and passion
Frozen in place within my own thoughts until
the wee hours of the morning
Time lost, a future beheld in my thoughts of her
A private journal upon which I spill my emotion
for her eyes only.
Scribbled thoughts of love.

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by Anonymous

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