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A Poet in the Desert

If I was to write a poem
How would it go?

How would it…feel?

It sucks,
When there are words, flat words, thick air
And thoughts are at war with thoughts,
Fighting to breach their moated city walls

A tangle of fork tongued snakes
Couldn’t do a better job
At creating a monster

Than the parched mouth of a poet
On a dead, spineless salt plain

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