Romance Isn’t Dead

Scrawling characters bled onto paper
Off bleached white sheet emitting vapour
I leave behind an immortal mark
Of summer light, of winter dark
Of borrowed image and inspired phrase
My muse the poets of bygone days
Not stolen, nor fleeced, but rescued from age
To rail against time, to spit and to rage
This poesies’ trace left long past death
This poesy uttered unto last breath

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