If I am to be listened to,

I must first speak; this is not

Halloween not trick or treat,

this is blood-thirsty work,

nothing to shirk or leave alone —

no writer leaves a stone unturned

alone, un-raked or scattered; ideas

are better off swept up, because

their burning embers might

rise as high as the sky;


The way the smoke smells

tells the tale, to get to the

heart of the matter, where mind

meets writer suffering, spilling,

lusting for others will go on living,

etched forever in his illusions;


Writers bob and weave stories

like boxers in their glory, taking

corner cues from unseen Muses.


© 2012 by Ron Kule. Reserved.


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