Too late

It’s too late for writing poetry and the time for prose had passed by with the closing of your eye lashes and the yawning of your mouth. You sit facing the screen wanting to go to bed but hear words hold you in place. You wonder why you do the things you do. The clandestine things of love and lust , of procrastination and laziness. But yet all around the birds sing a merry tune to the silence of my discontent. The priest has lost its grip . The ages of youth have passed me by laughing in contempt at my folly and I smile for all beyond that wall is full of wonder and joy

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