I never knew the grind of non-poetry
Of never freedom sounds
Of safe illicit pounds of words
Shredding light away from its inner glow
Now I know
Someone’s given me corns of scorn
Through the wind from his eyes
And slapping pink pies with thorns
Killing the rain I slurp up from
Soon it’s gone
Just when I thought for comfort from blood
I sought a little merry
But not so terry, the words I heard
They ravaged my eager smile
Wait awhile
And with grass green eyes I look to the Pantheon
How tastefully savage
Their nude words age with beauty
While I bathe in their mirthful prose
There it goes
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