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.