A poets
Words can spread
Like butter on a slithered knife-
What do we protect?
Hymns, other versions of mystery, misery lonely dreams, stealing
Copy writes. I'm a knight in a fight for my life.
Writing to touch the stony surface, the up above is perfect,And I'm loud enough to break the fortune teller's lying hand,
Just because I'm almost sixty doesn't meet my demands,
Though,
What is demand? And what is fate?
I have found well-planned Gray hairs,
Spanning my poematic plate,