Sonnet
She’s sending out the first texts of Spring.
The poets are ripe for picking, lonely with spite
for themselves. Many haven't written a thing
except debates on the correct usage of light
to shine on her. She doesn't have to show
to win. The admirers get things underway
without her there. She won’t even know
who is left standing at the end of the day.
It’s up to her inbox to tally the score
in the morning. The rumors already sent
her seal of approval. She wishes for more,
the power to call forth a rally, a witch hunt
in Salem, crushes persecuting crushes,
false surprise applied like her shadows and blushes.
No comments:
Post a Comment