the cock crows and i am up
i take up my regalia of poetry
washed and dried in the rainbow’s glitz
i chew on sticks of lines
and my spits there…are dancing symbols
i pick them with flaming fingers
and engrave the slimy soothing sizzling
on patient leaves…
looks under envy heavy eyes
eyes of venomous incantations
they want to burn my poetry coat…
they lip noiseless mutterings
pulses to make my poetry pride putrid
they do not know...
my muse malady is incurable.
who says there is a cure?
for the wood insect that gathers sticks…
i am the wood insect
and this poetry is my burden…
if I lie, ask abeni…
who sells poetry in the market…
doutbing temeduns…come your bloating eyes
i have poetry scars to damp your dirty doubts.
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