All the Writer’s

The ideas all went silent. All the writer’s are asleep.

The tongues are all about restraint, for the secrets we can keep.

The wise men are all now crazy. And the beggars found a home.

The sun is setting in the east and I never more will roam.

It’s all over but the crying and I’m broken up inside.

There was so much more I had to see but I’m falling with the tide.

The fights are all but over and I’m close to letting go.

The past is here and in between and love is all I know.

Dennis Mantin

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