What killer worse
than doubt of one;
of passion's force,
no greater than;
illed mother lores;
with father's scum;
where dreams they stored
for their sole sun;
on polished floors,
by hands of none
but children born;
for dreams undone.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry is a sense-blossoming flower that never wilts.
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What killer worse
than doubt of one;
of passion's force,
no greater than;
illed mother lores;
with father's scum;
where dreams they stored
for their sole sun;
on polished floors,
by hands of none
but children born;
for dreams undone.