Poetry,
Is not ballet.
Daggers drawn,
Before the dawn
Appears.
No choreography,
Here.
If you really want,
You will pay in tears.
We measure,
Each one.
Seems you are debit,
My son.
Begone!
No, stop. Listen.
You can get this done,
And when it’s all gone,
Just an afterthought,
As if life taught,
Nothing.
