Poor Comfort

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No comfort of things, however slick,

Does old age quite suffice.

I would my fanciest placebo yield

For the comfort of a voice.


Dying is not the worst scare,

Lack of converse is.

To be left to one’s device

Is a hell without remiss.


Life is not lived with bank balance,

Or the smartest gadgetry.

A storm of syllables seeking  soul

Speaks our throb to be.

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