The Hoard

I climb into the hoard which is my room;

the crunch of poems ‘neath my purposed feet.

Hand-written journals fill the corners where

a long forgotten love song needs repair.

Tacked to my walls, poetic posters greet.

Beneath my bed the dusty melange grows.

How many ardent poems hide their heat

and stir, cajole beneath my humble toes?

Computers scream against my rhyme. I’ve found

the world has left me large guffaw behind.

The digits swirl as their bright lines, unbound

while I still struggle just to breathe; to shine.

So, buried deep within my chiffarobe

live all the op’ning lines for which I strove.

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Poets Pub

Rantings Of A Third Kind

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