Different Hearts Poem by Rudolf Horne

A poem is no more than the sum
Of its parts.
Words and letters, strokes that are dumb,
Different hearts.
And you may see more in here than I myself
Or you may choose to close your ear,
Turn from the shelf.
No writer leaves any stone unturned
In his mind
But only some of it has he truly learned;
Some is left behind.
There is a writer for you somewhere,
I could be him -
Or spoil it with something beyond your care,
A different heart, a synonym.


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