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  • Hope
  • ,
  • Poetry

    .

    There is no breeze tonight
    and stars stick to my skin like static
    There is no soft place for my head
    here
    I've been telling time by cigarettes
    and I know its late by now
    I think of dying
    flying
    The wings on my back are not of angels
    but they might be strong enough
    to carry me

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    Poetry is what is lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    beeisforbumble’s Poems (12)

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