Matthew Holloway
Cheshire, England
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A Poet In Exile

Distant, far distant from such art
Distant to the beauty and love
Away from the muse and nature
The pen holds fast in the hand
And the mind stirs such thoughts
Away, away all does seem to be
That these ideals and words
Are but dreams never to be
Such kisses never felt upon lips
Such warmth of body giveth way to cold
Cruel, cruel at times the verse may fall
And the muse most distant of all
Like a poet in exile, away yet imprisoned
May only sing of such things
In the words of dreams
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