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UNTITLED


Hope deferred makes the heart sick.
It makes the soul dry as well.
Hollow, shallow, wallowing in self-pity.

Dreams unfulfilled sap life of promise.
The days roll by like blank pages.
Dusty, crusty, lacking all vitality.

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Untitled


I would prefer to view life through rose-tinted glasses,
but the lenses keep getting smashed.

Copyright 1997, 1998 by Malinda J. Altman. All rights reserved.

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