6/21/2017

Flights

I sit to pine on hope,
And pine and whine,
Till I am worn out with disgust.
Ink-pots dry up,
Tear-like.
Hope is a heavy drinker.

There are bouquets of moonshine,
In elsewhere lands,
As calming breezes
Play with longings.

In its authorial pace,
Hope flies. Afar.
at

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