Vary, of glory

He was writing a letter,
Writing a story,
Drifting from pleasure,
Vary,of glory.

In wanting to deter,
In trying to show thee.
The withering in weather,
Turning, thou slowly.

He was thinking a letter,
He was thinking of lonely.
And years by, in measure,
He was blinking only.

He was wanting to clutter,
But silence was it only.
Draining, from a fissure,
hurt, it had shown me.

He had started a letter,
Too short for a story.
And words did better,
Vary,of glory.


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