There is, for the
less exalted person,
a perverse, flickering
joy reading such lines
where those, who have
reached the heights
where clouds give
way to the endless blue,
profess disappoinment
for things not done.
O jealous one, it's
a minor matter, for
them on the eternally
frozen peaks of fame;
for when one has had
all the great and
glorious things, even
minor things ungained
become irritants when
remembered, for gods.
01.09.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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