The poetry goes on… We will never die…

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The power of the quill never dies

We worry the quill will dry out

The inkpot break or crumble to dust

We fidget, grumble, fear, shout!

But hush, hush; don’t rush…

Stand still, inhale the rich, warm fumes

That fill the air and allow words to bloom

Do not panic too soon

The poetry will sigh

We will never die.

Deborah A. Bowman