Poem: The Final Poem. The poets fingers, old and frail Write the words of his final poem. Trapped in his mind like a guarded jail, but now, to him, it feels like home. He wondered if he’d be allowed to mail it to his mother, or recite it over the phone.
Alone at a table with meager supplies: Two pieces of parchment, a crayon, and his thoughts. Tears well up and pricks at his eyes, For he knew, his life would soon be lost. The more he thinks, the more he cries, Sorrow dripping down: salty, wet, and…
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