A poem for tonight

No ode to memory.
Will be type out
for the silent page.
Not a word crafted
and broken in the evening.
Nothing, except for the sun
writing its own words,
in its ink of light.
Words, I don’t want to claim.
I feel in the air,
the truth of the day.
Floating with the lighted dust.


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Ok I'm going work on some poems. I also renew my Poetry magazine subscription too.