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Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Daimon Dust

The poetic urge in me
is no pleasing felicity,
nor choice, but necessity.

It is not something
I willingly choose,
rather it is a voice
that within me moves.

No Koranic reciter I,
nor prophetic seer,
just a feckless illiterati,
with a low-grade veneer.

No Keatsian ode sayer,
nor Dickinsonian heart pray-er;
rather a hapless word rhymer,
a greater poet's boot shiner.

Driven to by the daimon
that whispers vanity and hope,
I pump out words like a
gibbering monkey high on dope,
all the while wondering if even one poem
will survive my journey back to the
dust from whence I came.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

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