I’m not a fan of poetry. I’m just not. I don’t rather much like reading it, interpreting it, seeing it, carrying a book that contains it, thinking about it, smelling it, saying the word, and most of all writing it. But, here’s an attempt at poetry. It’s a take on The Sick Rose by William Blake.
O spawn, thou art divine.
The desperate seeker
That wriggles feverishly
Climbing steeper
Has conquered thy in barren
Land of fate,
And with its destined coupling
Does thy life create.
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