Held In History - Poem by Christabel McCooey
The blaring lights, the gritty air,
The screeching breaks, the rage declared,
Yet in these busy London streets,
I hear the voice of history speak.
She is calm, she is witty,
She speaks with no shame.
She holds the voices of the prophets.
They are here.
They are me and you.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You