The day a poet didn’t die-II: The witness
She’s at it again.
Wasting my ink
staging yet another death.
I draft her crimson melodramas
with third-hand metaphors
as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic
laced with rust
and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume.
I thread her June into
forced sonnets (poor things),
before her gin drowned the meter
in proofed regret.
Even a pen gets impatient.
Sometimes she pauses,
as though it might save her—
I rooted for her to mature
but talent won’t bloom from
immature theatrics.
Still, I ink her curtain call—
the curse of being a vessel.
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