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Mourning And The Moon by George Freek



MOURNING AND THE MOON


This night is tedious.

I turn the pages of a book,

but quit after a brief look.

As the hours slowly pass,

moonlight drifts by my window,

serene and leisurely.

I think of words for a poem,

but they’re merely

cerebral acrobatics.

They have no relationship

to any kind of reality.

Life and death are

all around me.

Where can I escape?

I hide in obscure words.

That’s what poetry does for me.

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