There is a letter from a world,

that was,were, and as yet would have become. . .

the now of ever lasting hour that has come from another.

Sweet sweet bitter poetic slumber,

Your world is not mine,

it was told and foretold by great olde Poesie’s;

The hour is near as I come here in place where my mind has gone by,

knowingly I am a traveler from and to,

the world of love life that we behold,

yet to be written and to be told.


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