May You Are Healed

An ill poet
lost his words;
lain on a bed,
in home; so bad.

He takes a pill,
swallows. Still.
Nobody cares,
he is quite scare.

Words are his trades;
his life is too dread.
How poems be made?
Sigh. His eyes fade.

He still could remember,
when he is stronger,
all poets and poetesses,
acclaimed him with roses.

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