The mill is under sea. It grinds out salt.
Politics love and death are always new.
I always have a subject – poems to do.
I sometimes think that I should call a halt

And send the Muse away. But she drops round.
Chocolates and flowers. And if those fail tears.
She left me flat for oh so many years
Sometimes I wish she’d throw me on the ground

And call me whore because I did not wait
started to see her sisters. Ten large books.
She doesn’t moan or give them dirty looks
Just brings a sonnet every time we date.

Perhaps they’re fairy gold that turns to dust
I can’t believe their worth and yet I must

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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One Response to

  1. history_monk says:

    That one has definite and considerable worth.

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