For Me
P Patti Masterman
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For me, none ever wrote poetry
For me, none ever wrote prose;
I stirred no sentimental pulses-
No use denying what was.
Why does god make misfits,
Who don't fit predetermined molds?
Why does god give warm hearts-
When receptions must always be cold?
The dead must now be happy,
Reposing in colder ground;
The warmth stays far away now-
And voices have no sound.
Bu şiiri puanla
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