And he could not, then, blame himself too much at redressing some of that grievance now. A little balance in the world, please.
It was the only teaching he thought he understood. The others (admit it, admit it!) had escaped him entirely. Furenthe was what he would always be. Apprentice. Lata the Furenthe. Furenthe Imagemaker.
(with no apologies to lyn lifshin, once our country’s most published poet)
I tell her that the machine hates her.
And with all sobriety she says, I know it does.
`And so he lowered himself down. What more can I tell you at this point? Do you wonder what he touched there? Do you wish me to describe the bottom of his well? Do you anger that I have kept you waiting so long to know? Seekers of ends are fools. ‘
A few poetry drafts in preparation for the 100 Days of Dante poetry contest.