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My pen will fail with broadened strokes
to dot the i’s of common folks.
I wish to write the better tale
than Humpty, Broken, Scrambled Yolks.

Or how about the roses pale-
ing ‘neath a mournful lacy veil.
Do tears alone, a knee-jerk cry
help keep the plot from growing stale?

Perhaps I’ll write a lullaby
to soften, soothe my daughter’s cry.
But when that lofty bough does break
will she be wise to ask me why?

What if I fail her, my mistake,
with living words, just for our sake? When I am humbled, broken true,
will she be wise with lives at stake?

My daughter dearest, as I rue,
remember, love, may love accrue
to living dreams, and joy ensue
to fill your days, when I’m past due.

over at DversePoets we have been encouraged to write in the first person. Feel free to stop by….

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