Hope

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Hope

Is there anything at all?
Now that time is gone, now that butterflies no longer sing my name, I am lost
Is there nothing for me anymore?
I feel nothing, I feel empty, I feel lost
But now, I think to myself
What if there is something left for me?
What if there is something, if little, to grasp?
What if not all is gone?
I hope.

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Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

shadedmoon’s Poems (1)

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