Words in lonely echoes fall
No ear to count their metre
Once a full and bustling hall
Hosts not serf nor praetor
Dust motes in the air drift down
And gather in the corners
Stir as versifier turned clown
Searches but no mourners
Sit in solemn grief at loss
Off they scattered oblivious
All had fallen to dross
Daily life was lascivious
Most were lured by promises
Of greater finds afield
Left were doubting Thomases
Awkward pens to wield
~ Ellen Apple 6/29/2016
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