A challenge: thirty days of rhyming words
Has been dropped on my doorstep. Can I do
This thing? I sit at kitchen window.  Birds
Take morning sustenance whilst I, who knew
Better, tried the chore once before, and dug
Deep into the core of my complex soul
To find meaning. Sometimes I, hurting, drug
Nuggets of truth from inside the black hole
Where an empathetic heart used to beat.
How much more is there left for me to mine?
Can poetry soothe hurt? Or is it bleat
Of self absorption? What can it define
Of a person’s inner voice? Could it be
Truth? Or could it simply make fool of me?

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