Poetry Was Never About The Money...
So now that you're done laughing,
Word play is a mission,
So secret only readers know,
We play at being secret agents,
An agency of the subconscious,
Muses our handlers.
Words might build pyramids,
But not those of poets,
We whisper to Father Time,
Who laughs at our ego,
If we're lucky our jokes.
I play with these words in twilight,
Somewhere between insomnia & pillow,
A sparkling word vampire,
I'll bite you for ink,
My only progeny pretty word baubles,
But it suits me to fill the time,
And I am in good company.
By: Daniel A. Stafford