They came for the feast of phrases,
gathered ‘round the wordless flame.
Empty cups clinked, unsated,
as the poet shrugged—his muse unspoken.
“There’s no story here,” he muttered,
his mind a drought-struck desert.
And so they sat, grasping shadows,
a poem promised but never served.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 13th, 2025 19:38
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 0
Offline)
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