Frost free’d that beast long way round.

Blake did made us wonder why.

Dickinson made us to see the ways of the verse.

Only Plath made a way in my heart,

to see

to bleed

to ache

to make something more in my hearts content,

that i,

can make sense of all,

that i still

give in to my need

of the verses, tenses, quips to quos

and stanzas that iambic notions of quatrains.

and yes oh yes, made me

more to be a whore of the world of;

Poetically inclined and declined.


2 thoughts on “Poeticae

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