Response to Sonnet 108

The brain is not the place I find my words,

The organ where I have the space to think;

It’s in my heart where poetry is stirred

And fuel for my writing is not ink.

I cherish old expressions with the new,

Rework and craft them into sentences;

Repetition of sentiment to you

Emphasises all my purest senses.

But in the sense of age we are not young;

Time’s mark is etched on our vitality.

Love does not forget songs already sung,

It weaves them into our life’s tapestry.

As long as my imagination lives

I shall have unlimited words to give.

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