Crisis
“Poetry” he said with a sigh,
too 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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