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Death of A Poet



Trying to rediscover,
That one thing taken for granted,
The freedom of being able to express,
Those thoughts from a tangled mind,
A cobweb contriving of mists,
From the fathoms of deranged -intellect,
Which have become non-existent,
Like a passed vision,
Now obliterated,
How do you share?
What you cannot describe,
Wearing the shackles worn by many,
Chained to a pen that once ran free,
Expressing vividly, without a care,
Words, were written,
So often flowed,
Like a stream to a river,
Then a river to the sea,
Eventually they become a wave,
Until that wave crashes,
On to the sandy shore,
It is then the ink dries up,
The sand so thirsty,
Digests every drop of water,
Each droplet contains words,
Which disappear down,
The throat of the sand,
Slowly they become the lost words,
Which then turn into the forgotten,
Can you remember that poet…?
Was it you? … or is it?

John Baverstock

John Baverstock

My poetry is normally easy to read, hopefully you will enjoy, I write poems on many different subjects, hopefully something for everyone...
love to all
JB x
John Baverstock

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