by Chelsea Rathburn
While words we pamper and protect
march off in search of meager fame,
these lines like bastard kids collect,
skulking through our notes in shame,
the discards of our intellect,
false starts, limp rhymes, feet bruised and lame,
condemned to suffer in neglect,
half-breeds that we refuse to name
for fear they’ll prove what we suspect:
the damned and saved are much the same.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Post a Comment