ABCDBAC

Her fingers carry cold-hard precision

like a surgeon, seeking out disease;

The irrational critic slashes

less out of need to please the art

than out of lust to appease

her thirst to grind your vision

into ashes.



I'm just a chip in her pile

trying to rhyme my way into stardom

under a subjective guillotine.

Hoping I catch her at the right time of day

lest five o'clock boredom

decides I'm worth the while

of the bladegleam.



Oh, is it all random, my dear?

Or at least, some of it.

Are the right voices being heard?

What are these words worth,

what will come of it

if you decide to shake spears

at the brightest birds?

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Ruth Lovejoy's picture

profound!