The Writer:::

The other shoe dropped.
Like a boulder covered the ant hole
There is a house that is no longer a house
A home where the souls roam alone.
Walking up the basement stairs of  turmoil
I can only do a poets work.
The trade of those with too many minds
The only lay off is to be silenced
The pay can be equal to the richest mans wealth
I’ll express the way a poet dreams 
Wishing words could feed the hungry
Serve them all with a helping of a second coming
Stomaches filled with each  letter
Yearning for another plate when they come across
the last word.
I’d keep them coming, when doing the poets work.
That’s what I’d do.

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