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Is For Worse For Better
by
Brent Fuller
A soliloquy of trophies
Avoids
And provokes me
Its casts and catastrophes
Well
Ill-prepare me
I walk just unarmored
Without ready ardor
Offenders include me
Catharsis entombs me
Method is mayhem
Metamorphosis never
Obligation perturbs me
We all scurry for cover
I peeled off my band-aids
Each one, by one
Too soon because Promise
Or too late if none
Rhymes can’t plant seeds
They don’t invoke creed
They mimic and mock
And squeeze out my need
In the pastures ahead
I scrape up the chaff
I make up my bed
I take up my staff
There’s work in those furrows
And possibly time
To take on my meaning
In virtue made mine
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