5, Pentameter
"5, Pentameter"
Where goest thou scribe?
you write and write and write
but nothing right
black lines
words artisan
like charcoal
who sees the marks
pentameter scorched
smoking invisible
in that place
just so
branded above
the breastplate
the wrist pauses
the sword held aloft
the thought hovers
waiting to be
cut
in half
and dropped
but 5 too shallow
and the grave,
too deep
the eyes
en garde
the mind
like a stitch
in time
cast off
shuffles
soft shoe
off
this mortal coil
tiger balm
lit
with
mosquitoes
to sleep
separated
captured
eventually
(LadyLabyrinth/2023)
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