Every one Writes.
No one reads.
How sorry and how sad
To be smitten so bald and bad.
To be so entwined in your own divine.
With thoughts and words that rise like flocking birds.
And poor attention so sadly fleeting
that it’s chore to read beyond a greeting.
With urgency that bids no time for poet brothers
or to peruse the painfully crafted words of others
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com