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I want to be caught up in the poetry of the world, 

and not have to write my own.

But lately I’ve felt stuck in disenchanted unrest.

I’ve lost the magic that turns the ordinary into home.

And I could blame it on the change of seasons or talk about 

how the planets shake us in their galactic quest. 

But the truth is mundane, even simple: my heart has grown tired

of waiting for the tomorrow that will come next.