Wet with privilege, a subtle sorrow
No more songs will come
A tuneful whistle on a country drive
All that’s left of the genius one

There is always something
And always nothing too
With little air in between
The difference is the work to do

A satisfied melancholy
A poetic drama ends
Left to wander the grounds
Bumping into friends

Inspired and pilfered from The Red Hand Files #286
12th Dec 2025 – Shared with Poets and Storytellers United #207 – in between

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