This is a work for the tome
it’s publication now foretold
in distant days beyond the now
holding scratchings frowned upon

collection made of muttered thoughts
each alone is not enough
to count as authoring to the ones
those arbiters of writer's charm

depending on a word count
this measure slams stanza’s breadth
crafted for a wry intent
now ****** against the yardstick

critics rally to critique
still I’ll pen another poem
the muse demands a sacrifice
a book waiting in future time.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190618.