On her art

I need a lullaby. Night turns past one
Drowsiness burns to wakeful. And I write
with eyes that tingle, wrists that ache. The night
silent outside. Another poem’s done

and my brain teems. So many years asleep
I make up for lost time. Perhaps a villanelle
Or just another sonnet.Might as well.
One to make people laugh? Or make them weep?

Wares for all seasons. Morbid yet facile
soppy yet academic. Words I’ll speak
on stages, written out of witty pique
to tease some friend. There’s a sardonic smile

I see in mirrors flash behind each eye
I sell my soul and as Mephisto buy.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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