Found among my memories on Facebook:
Second Class
If poetry were words that fell
together in comprehensible
patterns and rhythmic
expectation; if shadows
cast upon the mottled
walls were simply
shattered sunlight; daresay
I could count myself among
the whispered few; in wonder
I shall find my words, written,
spoken only second class;
and raise, when asked for
tender phrases, a glass of
ancient waters...
or is it only wine?
(c) 12 March 2015
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