Poetry is magic, like air is magic.
Invisible, yet holding life within'
it's grasp. In and out the words fluctuate.
Like air and leaves.
Swirling through Autumns crisp cool trees.
The sound they make bringing some sort of peace to the years.
Lessening the tears. Concealing the insurmountable fears.
Yet I do not know if the magic holds sway.
For below the heart, never
far, lies the black pit of ever churning tar.
I try to fly far away.
From the pain that is sure here to stay.
Only my sanity seems to make the daring escape.
Having left me to deal.
With the dark chasms of fate.
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