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Change

Wisdom they call it: that drying
Of fonts of feelings, and more,
That dying of heart, tender heart,
Of knowing but feeling no more.

My people left, left pangs behind,
Yet pangs of pain, no more for me.
That enemy mortal of tender heart,
Midas with stone touch, came to me.
Change
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: change
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5/7/2021 12:37:47 PM # 1.0.0.577