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Life has lost so much beauty and any poetry that remains is drawing ragged, desperate breaths. Each one of us must fight this affliction with every tired fibre of our being and with every last drop of ink that remains.
As babes cry for milk,
parents are preoccupied...
As the promise of my
eternal love condensed...
The crunch of frost gave way beneath my feet
As the morning sun fought off the stubborn mist...
I have discovered, with wondrous ease, the answer that has baffled the worthiest of philosophers: is there a greater meaning or higher purpose to life? Indeed there is. Stilton and red wine.
A true poet is not defined by his ability to write well; rather, his ability to feel profoundly.
I fear the life of a poet is plagued by an unquenchable thirst for happiness.