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Anthony Head's avatar

I hate poems about regret. Even when they are composed so well. Especially when they're composed so well, like this one. You see, this is crafted so cleverly that it makes everything feel too real. This one cleaves. It too easily seduces the reader into the briefest reveries where the air is balmy, the light is golden, the heart is dancing, the soul almost pours out like perperation on the forehead. It feels too much like a dream, and I cannot trust a dream for it dashes away as soon as I open my eyes. Yet, this poem is always going to be there. Every time I read it, and it will be many times, I will come to the end and not wake up. Because I'm already awake and the regret is real. I really hate poems about regret.

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