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I Don’t Write Poetry

By @CJtheReader

Grasping an idea is to

preserve a snowflake.

(it doesn’t last)


dries up

leaving my riverbed

seared and dry

Language slips by me

like quicksilver

or beads of rain

rolling down the car window

Images fade

leaving frustrated ghosts

in my mind’s eye

Wellsprings evaporate

clouds shift away

if there’s ever been a need for water

it’s today

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