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The poet with her two pencil rhyme trance chances her life with words
Boredom is always in the throws of her mental gallows
The sound of canonical horses gallops behind her encrypted shadow
But the wind blows bellow the surface of her poems beyond her hollow shallows
Yet she knows when her pentameter pants and pierces her page with lethal pen-anesthetics
She has arrived…
Poet,
She can call herself.
She looks lovely in her dress, looking down at the mic
The piano taps the strings that hold men’s poses together rattling their tears
Her voice raptures with soft breezes flo ating to fill the hall
Bodies move with her breeze
She has arrived…
Poet,
She can call herself.
