None for the reaper.
Three for the girl winging her way into other people's memories;
Or were they really for the one whose words those wings have built
Because she lives?
Too many for my selfish self
And two more for my pride.
How many for nothing at all
But the sheer, utter joy of uttering joy?
Oh, but Death has had his day, you say.
But my fingers move not a scythe.
Oh, but somewhere meaning was lost in between one line and the next, you say.
But my mind saves logic for equations far less colorful.
If only there was more than this and that and all we've heard before, you say.
But my muse is
Not who you think you are!
A break in the day is all I ask;
Scant few minutes and you can go back to your friends and your gossipy communities and
Not safe for work careers.
A rip in the routine;
All my fidgety nonsensual saucery.
There's no need to ask why
Isn't it enough that you don't know what I'll say