in the cold
spy who stayed
out in the cold
drew a code
on the window
poet who
lost his
hands
whispered
ink
into
a
deaf man's
ear
Ā a blind artist
paints
a portrait
of a place
that heĀ
has no ability
to see
asseverations
are
created
to remanufacture
intentions
that were
never
there
A paraplegic
dances
in his
mind
to a beat
his feet
will never
feel
asĀ
the mute
pretendsĀ
to beĀ
Pavoratti
crooning
to
the cries
of
"encore!"
What is impossible
is non existence
to
determination
As our will
overrides
limitation
Ā
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Comments
great poem GregĀ
loved it
Hi GregĀ
Well thought out.
Regards,
Terry.
This is fabulous work GregĀ sorry I'd not noticed it before now. This is superbly done xx
Thank you tina
Hi Greg, that's one awesome poem you wrote Linda have a MerryĀ Christmas.