I count myself an accused of such a crime
The ones that should have read these, haven't
The ones who write are yet in wanton hope
These poems are a shoot, malnourished of love
For they cast only unwordly shadows on hearts
The ones who should have loved, have not
The ones who write of them are in mire
There are those who read, render lip service
They infer buried feelings of archaic remorse
The ones who should have felt deeper, cannot
The ones who wirte of such are sad cohorts
Often after penning verses of those long gone
One finds oneself stuck in those painful pasts
The ones that should have stayed, have not
The ones who wished such are forever lost
So know this, all who write of love forlorn
I wish them a spell of amnesia's dawn
The ones they so long to reach out and touch
Fade into gentle circles of a gentle moonbow
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