A lion sleeps and twitches.
A mystery book’s chapters unfurl
From an ocean of blue-green
And form knee high grass, blowing
Through the breeze. Can the lion catch
Prey after sleeping so sound? Why are you disturbing
Me while I’m writing? You know
I hate that, especially when I’m on a roll
mmm…rolls, warm with butter.
I like rolls. Maybe I’ll write about
Them, but nobody wants to read
About rolls. Should I let that stop me?
After all, nobody wants to read poetry either.
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