Bleak
It's been cold, so I haven't opened
The dining room curtains. I simply
Succumb to the gloom. The yard,
The fields in the valley below,
And the sky all are white, like
A page without writing, a present
Into which no future can come.
I don't read the news. It's too darkly
Depressing. I never go out. There
Is nowhere to go. I wait in this
Place which now seems like
A prison, desperately longing
For spring.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck

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Written on 2023-01-24 at 23:44




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