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Apr 2015
The poetry of my soul has died
the angel on my shoulder left
away
and Gone.

She doesn’t need my poetry
my songs fall on no ears.
She sent no letter,
left no trace,
only a line.

“It’s too hard,”
The angel says.
It’s unfair!

The angel left
the poetry is gone.

Unneeded,
atrophied;
sometimes poetry is ugly.
Sometimes angels leave....

Scaring,
scarring;
the angel leaves
a hole.
Written by
J Jones  a big city in Iowa
(a big city in Iowa)   
338
 
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