Poet

 

 

He could write poetry like no other
On any topic that you could name.
It was his favourite pastime
To the exclusion of all else.

He had no love of his own.
Only his typewriter
His imagination
And his humble abode.

When he fell gravely ill
There was nobody to visit him
So secluded had he become..
His funeral was attended only by the nature that he wrote about.

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