Today Is Not A Day For Poetry

Today is not a day to write poetry.
It feels flat, here in Stockholm
The sun is hiding
The cold rain is biting
And everyone is scurrying around 
With no time or interest
In things poetic,
All far too busy
On their phones
To worry about
The nature of existence,
Or what it is to really love.

Today is not a day for poetry,
But what the hell…

Hanging blue ball Green lane

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