Sad Day
It is a sad day in the poetry world.
The poet slows and does not write
this night.
Instead he must explain and excuse.
He coughs
and the readers see
he does not deliver this day.
No stanza for the gathered group to
peruse.
Instead this muddle of word and garbledness
"Where is the pentameter?"
he hears the cry
fear is on him now
the pack pursue him
don't say this is nought but a dream...
"nay tis real".
When no rhyme
nor
clever wit
explode across the page
he feels
the
scorn and derision
of the
people who follow...
the pressure it is too much!
but lo
he turns and sees
a poem has
been
strung
out
behind him
all
this
time.
There,
that grin on his cheeky face.
What hides there?
The mob turns
walking away
they'll get him
on the morrow.
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Hi, thanks for reading my poetry and thanks for your comment.