Is It Poetry
Just the sight of a star filled night,
my first love was for you and all the rest.
Each hot ember from the fire,
where I was burned I feel inside lies empty
like a robins nest.
However this plays out,
our views they slowly, ever slowly
now leave doubt.
This empty feeling that I feel,
and how my daughter feels about her life.
That day I know has passed,
and like the past is now alright.
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Comments about this poem (The Unborn by Is It Poetry )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Harold Hart Crane
(21 July 1899 – 27 April 1932)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(25 November 1890 – 1 April 1918)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967)
(1886 - 1967)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
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