To a John Keats of Today

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O Love,

 

Why’d you wait with bated breath?

For your Bright Star: a glimpse, a word, a dewy-eyed kiss?

The romance has gone, my friend, the winds restrained

It is Love that’s lost; it is Love that we miss

 

No one looks up at the moon these days

Neither praises the sun nor snow, for soul’s own delight

Your hands won’t dry on ink; your words won’t pierce any heart

It is cold out there; it’s a rather dark age, so blight

 

So blindingly lightened, the eyes are numbed

Mirrors reflect visages lost in their own baffling cries

And promises are but mere ease of the ego; wildflowers wither

On the remains of once frolicking butterflies.

 

You must not waste your breath on me or her

Leave your music behind; in thine Gods worth

So thou may help those who seek insight,

Spirits as happy as the dove, whose feet are still on earth.

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