Dionysus.

If it ain't so
think, with all the indentations
in the death bed of poetry
something habitual as
the moon oozes and creates
like Dionysus, a drifting eye,
glistening in brevity (terse and into verse)
the underfoot of both vice, love, and shame,
as if the earth left
and we poets, the true fools and players,
observe our ghosts
in the gardenias, our bed of scarlets.

© 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

Written 3/17/21 in response to utahan15.


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