The last poet continued to write as the world crumbled to dust
The last bombs had fallen long ago and the sun no longer shone Slow death and starvation had taken the bulk of the population The crops and plants failed What else to do but write There was no way to set this right No tomorrow is another day nor movie ending He didn’t know he was the last poet That when the ribbon of inspiration in him ceased The world would be a darker place He just wrote With no ambition nor illusion of an audience to see nor read He wrote what he felt And he carried on until his skeleton thin hands no longer had the strength to write And the world Was left Quiet
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Douglas Karson
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April 2021
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