Crisis
“Poetry” he said with a sigh
To distinct to escape the notice
Of fifteen sets of staring eyes
Burning holes into walls
Papers on the desk,
Out through windows
And into his head.
“Poetry is…” he uttered like
Words frozen against his lips
In a chilling winter wind
“Poetry.” He mumbled
But never finished as the shame
Crept with the doubt into his face
Because he didn’t know what
Poetry was.
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