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The Dilettante

To no one in particular, but everyone out loud What you portend as Poetry, should never make you proud The words are so revealing, of what’s not inside your head Your heart lies soundly sleeping, there forever in your bed The words you do disservice, as the rhyme you then defame The couplets maimed and slaughtered, with free verse then just the same With your voice not flat or tinny, maybe you should try to sing Because verse as you now write it —is a bee that cannot sting (Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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Book: Reflection on the Important Things