THE MAGIC by John D Robinson

Nothing to write about
except
the decay of humanity and its
implosion of violence and
selfishness and self-hatred,
nothing to write about
except
the awesome wonder of a
bee or the feeling of the
sun or rain, exploring,
touching your skin,
the infinite majesty of
Beethoven, Bach and
Sibelius, the hand-work of
Basquait, Pollock, or
Goya and the rants of
Olivier Larronde,
Shelley and Kerouac,
nothing to write about
except
the magic of
everything.

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