good morning

As a poet there are so few modern places to shine
We are usually most popular after our untimely deaths
And with those whom never felt our true affections, while
Our lovers are deep, dejected, desolate.  We animate love’s
grace through the pen in
stolen observations and tinted
memories of the senses
Never do we hold else higher than
love, and in so doing, we
allow a kind of devaluing
of our craft—as if words that
stir the mortal heart are
cheap and plentiful.
Lo, I know these words are
more rare even than the
love of which they speak, which
at this point is some kind
of unannounced miracle.
Fallen from the starry night sky

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