at 57

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at 57

the hoar of winter has blurred my face ---etched harsh lines--gripped with numbing embrace---stiff joints and labored pace---inside roars a defiant snarl---to rejoice the wonder of life---cherish the moments of springtime ---of the little garden ---inside my withered soul

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Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

itolduso’s Poems (11)

Title Comments
Title Comments
at 57 0
inspiration 1
clouds 0
yesterday's hero 1
delusion 1
western dream 1
cowgirl sings the blues 0
streets 0
la. night 0
daybreak on the bayou 0
fallgarden 0

itolduso’s Friends (3)