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  • Life

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    reaching back through memory,
    dredging through petrified thought
    hard and black as bones turned
    to stone,
    one can't help but feel the ache,
    the sodden weight,
    of emotion forever detached
    from the present. 

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    jonathonca’s Poems (8)

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