Poem #147

Poem #147

So be it,
I won’t moan again
The point in mind
Already given,
Not violently shaken
Like every debate
And thought should be.
Rather I will let it loose
On you, to grow, to fester
Like a curse swirling overhead.
My words will command a say,
Explain what I’ve been dying
To tell you, this I know.


David A. Church

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