Playing poet
Cutting a fine figure
On some historical page
windswept and anxious
bloodshot and lonely.
Angst ridden lover, getting
Home on a drunken horse.
Pain free at first light
can’t remember where he’s been,
but by mid-afternoon, the
poet’s bored with what he’s never done.
He leaves the sleeping to the new-born
and lies in Judgement’s scorn.
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