Tuesday, April 4, 2017

There's No Such Thing as Prose

Then Madam put on her hat
And walked out the door. Can one
Ever regret composing
A line beautiful as that?
My flesh hides a skeleton
Composed of slowly bending,
Often breaking glass. Can one

Ever envy enough his
Skeleton's celebrity?
You would think body wouldn't
Care so much for poetry.
It's shame that eats us away,
Wrote the playwright. Then Madam
And my bones walked out the door.

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