English poetry

Ode to my broken piano

On the days that I do not love you my love looks nothing like love. In fact, it looks much like not quite the opposite but an in between state: A half-working key, an almost soundless note pressed against my finger-tips.

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Remember

If I am to remember,what does that truly mean? Does it mean to remember the guns fired,to watch the scarlet blood gleam,or to touch the spirits who are still alive today,and hold them in high esteem? If I am to remember,what am I to forget?For it is difficult to say I am sorry,when we have […]

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