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M. T. Whitington - Untitled
The City of Angels is a city of gypsies.
A city of folded hands, the oak of golden dreams.
What siren called the sagebrush bohemians ans wondering hippies?
Apostles of hedonism in the factory of dreams.
The garden of allah, who knew?
The lights of L.A. in the basin canyons,
sparkle of sand from the ocean to the desert banyans.
I too, like faulkner drew.
Influence blew like the mountain winds dew.
On Twain, London, Kerourac, Huxley, Fitzgerald and Sinclair.
A home in exile now decays in noise.
Nature has a way of getting rid of us.
Los Angeles keeps her secret hidden in trust.
I am just passing through...
M. T. Whitington shared his poem with Departures in participation with National Poetry Month. Since not included in that project, we showcased his selection in our community poems section. We thank him for his contribution in celebration and understanding of L.A. You are invited to share your poem as well.