Poetry Can’t Quit Me

Even if my writing pen of poetry
Is blunt severely burnt;
And bees of conscience won’t let me use
My best or rest;
Or the matrix of imagination ignites against
My decision great confusion;
I won’t let my senses retire unwillingly without
My attention, their pension;
For I’m a twin and a mood staying
The same in name;
And I share one fate
With poetry my symmetry.

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