Lost is the pen of whom I write of,
the ink within seems dry.
The winds have changed direction,
sky clear, yet torn.
Searching, don’t know as yet,
maybe for words that flow out this time.
Not of a poet,
just of a simple person, perhaps not of any origin,
not even of any feeling.
Poor am I to this page,
“Homeless” as I for we have no direction,
no place to be,
no pleasure in this writing,
no sense of feeling,
no reason anyhow…
26 December 1999
Poem number 301
Unknown time
T. Dench Patel
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