me, myself and she

a tribute to Joyce

I think that I won’t live to be
a golden poet of eighty three.

A poet with fingers arthritic at best
that silently sit on the keyboard to rest.

A poet gazing upon a blank page
praying her brain soon will engage.

A poet who’s words have lost magic and flair
to an unsympathetic audience that just doesn’t care.

“Remove life support,  let the poet be slain!”
“Put her out of our misery, help ease our pain!”

Poetry is written for no one to see
Thank God for the poem that she calls a tree.

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