A poem 1: A woman’s weight in words

And it starts in the 15th century

some old washed up court poet’s

praises and fame

wasn’t really giving him what he wanted any more.

What he wants,

what he wants is a women,

but all’s he got is words.

So he sits in his high tower

sits at the desk

packs his pipe and lights it

smokes, looks, and scribbles,

then moves to his unmade bed

where he dreams of the women

in a checkered dress

with a little corner tore off from a rose bush,

a nice book of poems in her hands,

but oh lord not his poems

not his poems about the lord.

Her toes and her fingers

are stretched out on linen

so clean to the touch.

And her eyes open wide

and her lips part.

If she was there he would write about her

but now he sees throughout her, skin flushed with life

and he lets out a noise

and tosses the rag aside

ooooh, falls asleep.

The next week he is in line for execution

cause of a poem laid out for the queen.

His muse got in the words

only cause he wrote her in there.

There are only so many ways to praise the king

but that absolute women just seems to stretch on and on and on.

His head got lopped off;

it was oh so worth it.

He looked up for a second before the end

and there she was crying

he felt filled with blood,

making this poet’s last noise a laugh.


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