Swept To the Poet's Dust Bin
Magic moonstone on her finger
Dreams of tanzanite kisses,
Shadows in her bedroom linger
Losses, she thoughtfully, dismisses.
Friends that used her, for their glory
Disappear from her like fog in the city.
Looking for new friends to bury,
To rise to the top,using feckless ditties.
It's a twenty four hour race,
With nobody ever really winning!
The truly best writers know it is not
how much you write at all!!
So, in the end what glory be
With a crown made of non-reality?
And poetry shred to ghastly pieces.
All ending up as an artistic, bloody fatality.
5/12/2019
9pm PST
Copyright © Panagiota Romios | Year Posted 2019
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