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The Poet

Out of space, out of time
Out of words, out of rhyme
Out of dollars, not a dime

Quill in hand, dripping ink
Whiskey warmed cheeks of pink
Smoking ’til his brain can think

Praying his next poem pays
As life walks past his stagnant gaze
He exhales a smoky haze

The man nobody knows
Screaming silent hellos
Through his lyrical prose


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