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Do not rewrite the past.
No hand can erase
what time has carved
in wounded skin.

Let your oldest notebook
inscribe the first line
of a new tale —
written in fresh tears
and the sweat
of becoming
a future still unfolding.
Only a few
make a pact
with the wind

Only a few
know the joy
there within

Free of the shadow
that follows
and stalks

Escaping
tomorrow
in moments recaught

Horizons lie waiting
as pilgrims
embark

Voices like magnets
pull light
from the dark

Only a few
hear the music
on high

Through handlebar
portals
— embraced by the sky

(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
We don't fight
With fists or guns
But with words;
Ideas, ideals and puns.
We are a movement, use your words for good!
I am wilted. I am weary.
I am weathered. I am worn.
I am stuffed with seeping sadness, and stewed in sticky, seething scorn.

I am deflated. Thoughts debunked.
And I am drowned in desperate dread.  
When I soak my roots in water, I find it dries them out instead.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am wilted. I am worn.
This has many versions. This is the pillar.
I was once curiously asked:
"Why write poetry?
Does it pay the bills?"

I replied with a smile:
"It does far more than that -
it heals."
Foresight
No conclusions
Could be wrong, maybe right
Try seeing through the night without
Moonlight

©2025
~ Cinquain ~
The first line and the last line mirror one another in sound, and the number of syllables increases by two with each line before abruptly decreasing: 2-4-6-8-2.
~
The word Cinquain is the French word for "bundle of five objects."
~
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