Slaying of the archfiend.

Keeping that incessant dragon from infecting his mind

He truly believed he could be that word messenger

A wordsmith for all seasons

Living in the poems bestowed upon him.

 

On the lookout always for a beginning

Knowing then there would be an end

Sometimes feeling blue, bluer than sea water

Pulverized by words.

 

Yet fully confident in himself that

On the far side of that mountain

Though it was a distance away

Word claustrophobia would lift

As does a mountain mist.

Thus he slew that dragon.

(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

 

 

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