Old York
you ride trains for hours
you season you dream
suddenly you can’t sit still
no one hears from you again
you season you dream
suddenly you can’t sit still
no one hears from you again
Old York
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
Unknown Source
Title | Comments | Submitted |
---|---|---|
Title | Comments | Submitted |
Old York | 0 | 12/02/2008 |
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