When you lose your poetry

When you lose your poetry to the wind,

it hurts.

Rendered voiceless, you

lie on your bed face down

and let your tears burn holes on the

pillowcase. The unwashed stink sneaks

stealthily and knocks rudely. You hush it

away.

The street lamp stares at you. It doesn’t

know where your poetry is. A single frail

page. GOT watermarked. Blue ink on old

paper. Where’d you go?

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