Thursday, February 21, 2008

Warning: Poetry inside

















There's poetry in her breast:
There's poetry and all the rest.
I wonder if, within her vest-
al air and guise,
she has a chest-
nut well-disguised
filled with the words
she needs to cull
and craddle the world
on a leash, to lull
the grief and knife
that fate bestowed
festering wounds with
on the faithful wife
who in her bosom
bore a cage
where beat young life
roaring in rage.


Believe me, reader,
do not sway from
paths that shall not lead
this way.
Run fast and catch up
with the mighty sun,
Lace your hands atop
it, maybe make a bun.
There's poetry in her breast,
so stay away,
For she will eat your liver
if she may.
Consume it with domestic
salts and pickled peppers
And drive you
to a colony of leppers.

For no reason at all
For no reason to fall
back on,
For no quaint excuse,
Or horrid will to bait abuse,
No wish to enthrall,
Maybe only standing tall:
the wild chasing the goose.
For there's poetry in her
breast, that's all.

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