Poets go inside when the temperature drops

Never needing to apologize
Never trying to categorize
Never meaning to violate a trust
Doing whatever seems a must
Have I already said too much or still not enough?
Clearing debris from the playing field
& now that that’s been done – game on
Pushing penciled thoughts over blank pages
I shan’t admit to the past, if only to repeat myself
Scientific measures have failed me
Do I believe in magic?
Caught in my own trap, seeming lifeless, limp
Pretending I don’t believe doesn’t work – I must compete
… Poets go inside when the temperature drops …
attempting to negotiate terms of enduring love
flexing one’s virtual muscles
in a godless rage
softened by a choreographed blow to the chin
while hiding a badly bruised ego


Author: Emma Beane

"My history is still one of those mysteries I struggle with every day..." - [ebeane] ... All original works Copyright Emma Beane

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