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what of the man who
closes his eyes
and dies—
every poem
he never wrote
on his lips,
his last breath
a broken promise,
his life a song
unsung.

we are liars to say
they’re whispered
in the wind or
gathered in sunlight
like shimmering
specks of dust.
they travel not,
nor are they
illuminated, just
wasted.

 
This poem originally appeared in the 2009 collection Sixty-Six.