An Artless Happiness

Who now needs poetry,
When all is well within,
Illusive harmony,
Brief yet sweet, gone again.

I hardly bring myself
To even try writing,
The times of inner health
Artistic resigning.

Poetry is for pain,
The artist without it,
A craft pursued in vain,
Needs agony to fit.

Ohh, but I’ll be back soon,
The menacing fortnight,
Sadly not the blue moon,
Love’s void persists its plight.

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