poetry for a month;
my meager offering
made to,
or received from,
the Muse
does she
abandon me now,
having overstayed my
welcome
in her presence
or does she reward me
past my persistence in
spewing vapid verses
into the ether,
hoping, on occasion,
she'll string together
one, or
two
coherent lines
either way,
for now
the month is over, so
I'll read the comics
trying to pay attention to what's going on in the world around me
we'll miss your poetry, but there's always next year
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