I did not write anything today, and so this poem (that I wrote back in 2009) seems very fitting for tonight. (I had forgotten how much I love this little poem):


Here I miss that night,
Of which I did not write;
Of which I failed to sing;
Of which I could not live,
To breath or think or stand
Or grasp the fickle mist,
Of which did not exist.

© Jeremiah Dowling 2009


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About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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