National Poetry Writing Month – 4/19

Standard

Cold Comfort

I know my muse
As if I gave birth to him
And watched him grow up
He’s wicked tall
He slumps
He’s 403 years old
So unsure of himself still
I don’t know if I made him
Or he made me
Sometimes I lose my way
He gets my attention
Plays games with my life
Like I do with his
“Very good, my dear,” he says
When I’m back on the path he sets
And then he puts a cold hand on my shoulder.

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