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Image for the poem when hope dies

when hope dies

An Octet

i
serve no
purpose here
upon this earth
if, every morning,
waste i God’s precious time,
and when the eventide falls,
by my  limited  astuteness,
complain i that life is fruitless.
have i no care for the calls
of  the  victims  i  climb,
as  they  dare  to  sing,
devoid of mirth?
do  i  care
when hope
dies?

© Copyright 2019 May 31
by Clyve A. Bowen♫
Written by cabcool
Published
Author's Note
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