DroMata
Poetry is life, poetry is death and sometimes in the middle but it's what I got left.
Words
Words, words, words
Do they become verbs?
Stillness disturbed
When action occurs.
Backward, forward, then re-turns.
No lesson or no exercise
I’ve never learned mine
Letters exit my mind
Leave my “Friendly Confines”,
“Cubbies”
Took the keys
Felt the breeze
Release
With ease
Appease?
Please.
This rhyme scheme?
A dream
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