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the real poem is not in the words
but in the thought...
the well of feelings
in which it was created
the true painting
is not on the canvas
but in the vision...
the caverns of the conscious mind
the beauty of love
is not just a kiss, a smile, a touch...
but rather the moment
of it's inception

the poet, the artist
the creator unknown
all conspiring to bring
Life
to our thoughts
supposedly
the competition
of the world's best soccer teams

has become
        very deplorably
a plaything of global politics

bad carma
I rarely go out
do not talk to many
cook my own meals
don a mask on planes and buses
and crowded supermarkets

hoping to survive Covid
uninfected
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