Picket the Pen

Protesting poetry and the unlikely sin

That my mind is sorry, as I picket the pen

My days are number and the seasons lovely

Yet I count down hours as to drown in bubbly


My mind is rot and gruel and mold and mildew

I am Lot’s wife, that salt life, cold and without you

Headaches are increasing, words spill from ears

My tears are joyous as I write and forget my fears


Escaping in magic, make-believe and pretend

My words are holy and they picket my pen

The moon is red and the worlds at it end

Love is here, I know, I’ve been writing him


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