Poetics

It is love or poison, of to the degree, I know not which
His poetry less a curse and more designed to bewitch
And on his words I become a drunken wretch
Or to his command a dog that would obey and fetch
Or a bounty hunter lurking to collect
From a coffin closed to standing at erect
I lap them up regardless the effect
They woke me from a dream I can’t detect
A passage of time from which I overslept
But his words I read are simply perfect
And like an avid reader I love his best

© Delia Ross. 2019

xxoo times infinity squared = XXOO (2)2

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