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This poem I wrote a fair while ago, another one that just came out, I was staring at my pad, in what I thought, was a 'block'. I believe it to be be, one of my better attempts, at poetry. Please do not hesitate to comment.
Monday, September 25th, 2006.
Paper
A crisp, clean, white sheet
Edges, straight, cut neat
No smudges, marks or written word
Images not drawn, by pen, like sword
Sketches unimagined, remain blank
Page bare, unworked, like rough plank
Smooth leaf, untarnished sheath
From virgin reams, on quite heap
Unnumbered volumes, never written
Love stories, of two people smitten
Letters missing, words not rendered
Heart felt longings, relations unmended
Writer's pen, artist's pencil, still
Printing press seized, unstained stencil
Thoughts and observations, kept silent
Poets unpublished, so too, love's sentiment
Pledges, contracts, letters of love
Blank, without meaning, above
Ignorance, an excuse, appointments to keep
No lines, no reason, reality asleep.
©Copyright. Kian Andrew
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