The NY Literary Magazine

A Distinguished Selection of the Finest Modern Literature

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heartbroken

My December by Katie Lynn

My moving hand writes on and on,
No matter what I say,
I cannot bring him to erase,
That cold December day.

The day was sad and wearisome,
It chilled me to my core,
I’d known that something would go wrong,
Though I could not be sure.

I’d felt so tired and lonely, still,
My heart had ached for him,
Beneath the Christmas trim.

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Empty Vessel by Valormore De Plume

The days are long, hot, and maddening,
the nights cloudy, starless, and sultry.
Sleep withheld behind a heavy dark veil.
Spirit weary in its empty aloneness.

Fleeting visions from happier times,
refuse to project, on the silver screen within.
Joy from dust-covered chapters, dissolves in decay,
upon the sagging shelves of remembrance.

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