6.40am

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6.40am

The morning i cried was the morning i knew,
that what takes months to build takes seconds to pull down,
and hoped that cracks can be painted over,
with new memories of better times,

Because summer can turn to winter,
shop closed and sign turned around,
tree felled quickly with a sharp saw,
and lights turned off to leave darkness,
with no stars only cold wind,

When one chooses to even if we know we are,
wrong and bad and vile and evil
destroying for what we wake.

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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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