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Handwritten Poems

By @CharlieJMitchell


Does the moon really exist?

Most nights, I forget it’s there. 

I am too focused on

The girl,

The cat,

The stranger,

And the air.

Is anyone sure of what they think?

Most days, I am not.

I am only sure of

The wall,

The sun,

The novel,

My empty cot.

Do prophets dream of ignorant bliss?

Most years, I get lost in the herd.

I try to forget

The job,

The art,

The question,

And the word.

There is something at my window.

It is a starry night’s picture.

Everything I see

The glow,

The sphere, 

The wish,

The midnight fixture.

I must jump.

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