No. 7 (Poem)

I walked the street
Worn shoes played host to my exhausted feet
Second fiddle to the rain was the hat I had worn
My shirt clean white, soaked through and torn

And I stopped. In the cold, harsh wind and the pouring rain;
To replay, in my head, the moments I would never feel again
A poet, a writer, a thinker I am –
Nay, a thinker, a writer, a poet I was.
For what is past is past, the time forgotten song
Of the days of my memory, in which shall I
Forever belong.

Literature Poetry

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