Radio

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  • Lost Love

    Radio

    Long after you've
    gone home, there
    the radio sits. It's
    been quiet for a
    while, my world
    empty of sound.

    The radio, it
    mocks me. You touch
    it so freely, yet
    you won't take
    my hand. Just as
    you press power
    on that radio,
    you awaken me from
    my quiet, calm, lonely
    sleep.

    Awaken me
    again, the next
    time we meet.

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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.

    queenbee2010’s Poems (14)

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