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Jan 2021
Anyone there write poems anymore.
Is picking up a pen a thing of lore?
Are there star accountants counting at night?
Dictating under a moon too bright.

Hands hoveringΒ Β under a dim light,
Pencils swaying like a rod for a bite.
No audience pulling on your string of words with polite
No mountain of phrases on landscape of white

I know these thoughts a bit,
my own private hell.
But more horrifying than this
Is no ink in the well
Written by
Anecandu  M/Jamaica
     MS Anjaan and Rich Hues
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