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Return

A return to the pen on paper.
Ink from the soul splurged on a white sheet.
Will you consume my smorgasbord of spelling and reprieve?
An art that dies will resurrect a need for transparency.
Return to poetry.
The ache to master the language of the babbling baby.
The need to communicate as an adult.
Shakespeare expectations meet cliche.
I am not a poet, but I write as I grieve.

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