Poets of the morning

The sadness of the day

brought tears to the eyes

of the secret, silent one,

who kept the chaos of the clouds

wrapped up in his silk handkerchief

until the dew drops could fall

silently on the meadow

where the poets of the morning

tripped and danced

while the moist grasses

fed their dried out spirits,

refreshed the desiccated dregs

of a burnt out mind,

an example of purgatory

laden with the guilt of shame,

lying on a frozen lake

waiting for the ice to break

for a release into the cold,

to escape from this hell.

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