They Come And Go

They come in bunches

At odd hours ...

In the middle of the night

Or wee hours of the morning 

Did I keep the window open 

By mistake 

But then the breeze wicked as ever

Swishes them away...

Without taking leave of me 

I was never meant to promise them a page

I was never meant to imprison them 

With a quil... in ink...in bold letters maybe

I was never meant to own them

I realise of late

But

It's late ....too late....

Oh! So late....

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