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Autumn.

November 7, 2018

The clouds are gathering up,
it’s spring and they rain on me.
I feel the strain as I grip to a thought
it’s not hate nor is it love.
It is disillusionment.
It hangs my head heavy- and I have no hate on that.
I just wished it wouldn’t.
I wish I couldn’t, but I can’t.

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From → Poems

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