A POETIC ORPHAN
She sits alone
Shunned by those that rhyme
With sublime
Ridiculed by the raucous
And bellicose
For of all the words
It is said
She is the only one
That doesn’t rhyme
With anything.
She has ceased defending
Her presence
In the molten shades
Of breaking dawns
Her streaming brush stroked
Sunsets
She often sits alone
Amid the seasonal splendor
Of a New England Autumn
Shuffling through the rustling
Shades and shadows of her self.
She knows who she is
And that she does rhyme
For to rhyme
Is to blend easily
Seamlessly take center stage
Without seeking applause.
She seeks no curtain call
Only the crest of sunrise
Act one, Scene one
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