Meta-poetic reflections on the 22nd day of NaPoWriMo
I am feeling the heat of the battle
and tasting its bittersweetness. Still on track,
though other things fall through the cracks of space
and time. Poetry is a jealous mistress,
after all, a possessive lover without gender who
demands every ounce of your attention and devotion.
Forget any other dedication, any outside legal
or moral obligation, poetry warns,
and ignore that silly wench you call your Muse!
Poetry screams, “Be with me alone!”
And you accommodate, first haltingly,
reluctantly, then eagerly, anxious
as you become narcotized by, then addicted
to the sweet taste and aroma of stolen waters.
I am feeling the heat of the battle
and tasting its bittersweetness. Still on track,
though other things fall through the cracks of space
and time. Poetry is a jealous mistress,
after all, a possessive lover without gender who
demands every ounce of your attention and devotion.
Forget any other dedication, any outside legal
or moral obligation, poetry warns,
and ignore that silly wench you call your Muse!
Poetry screams, “Be with me alone!”
And you accommodate, first haltingly,
reluctantly, then eagerly, anxious
as you become narcotized by, then addicted
to the sweet taste and aroma of stolen waters.
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