No thing with feathers
Perches here, thank God
I wouldn’t have strength
For a that tune never stops
No—tonight those Boots of Lead
Are back, and I am wrecked solitary again.
If I could learn to make
That plank in reason finally break
I would be finished
and I wouldn’t care
If I ended knowing or not
Here—or Then—Or There
*****
I didn't get this up in time because battled a tension migraine all night. Yesterday's NaPoWriMo prompt invited us to rewrite a famous poem and make it our own. I chose Emily Dickinson's "'Hope' is the thing with feathers" and "I felt a Funeral, in my Brain" to help me handle the pain.
Image: Picasso's "Head of a Woman"
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