Unwritten Poetry

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By B.

Hell-bent on repentance
I dug up my past
– a stack of confessions
in black ink and metaphors –
my religion,
true and false,
unstructured and incomplete.

Forgotten in the pages was
a decade-old whispered poem
to a future lover,
the writer of words and dreamer of dreams
who could make me believe
his theories of history and heaven
and me.

I wanted to write him poetry while the world burned
through its tribulation.
But you only like poems that rhyme.

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