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There's poetry in the simplest moments
Not contrived
Poetry without the here-to-fore's
And why's
Poetry born without effort,
Not induced
Poetry in the simplest actions,
Not over produced.
You might ask where this life exists
That without effort dwells
'Tis not here in the banshee lands
With denizens of hell --
And though you well remember
When the times you dwelled
In peace and lands refined,
The time has come to bid this place farewell
And leave your mind
Full no longer of vexation, anxiety or woe,
Untried lands and halls that greet you now
Are not yet yours to know --
But soon, so soon the trumpet sounds
And calls you far back home,
No longer to roam these vexish lands
Of hell and suffering foretold.
Go now.
Find poetry
In places betwixt your mind
And spacious, stressful efforts
You shall soon leave far behind.
Letter to the Author at SoulGnosis@aol.com