It pleases and amuses me to see the reader’s joy
as well as angst and worry at mere words,
a poet’s work is cryptic like the horse they used at Troy,
and the syllables make up the final words.
While the soul must be the source of part and parcel of all wit
and the heart lifts verbal spirits to the sky
there is nothing set in stone that’s either said or writ
and the people let the messages pass by.
Should I write about a killing, either foe or of my own
it won’t follow that the deed is imminent
yet beyond the next horizon lives my very precious clone
he’s the master of my inner discontent.
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