Winds
The death of a pen
And loss of study to an unborn line
Death parishes, in just a word
Calling it the 'Grave'
The next light is dawning
A story looks inside a mans soul.
None is more painful than being alone.
The dye colors morning dawn
And spread into grain of sand
Winds rush to throw
In random places
Live and breathes
Life restored words
Death dies
And shuts the graves
poem by Howard Johnson
Added by Poetry Lover
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