Poetry Class
44
Searching for my muse on a Monday night
Will poetry be the death of me?
This my friends, we’ve yet to see
“Here’s a tree,” says he,
“Go forth and write.”
(In five minutes or less)
“Or take the river over hither
To see where it takes thee!”
Oh, I sweat, my pen’s gone dry
My brain has turned to dust
He turns to the sea of eyes:
“Your poetry, you WILL discover
In three weeks, or FRY!”
PrintShare it! — Rate it: up down flag this hub
Am I dead, yet? says:
3 months ago
ahh, sweet poetry, sweet words! I should hope poetry is the death of us all--sweet death.