Her Poetry
Her poems are lies.
She is not a phrenic elderly woman,
she can kick the muse's tush
including yours without you
grasping it.
It can be cloaked with Gordian knot
and you will end up slicing it into half.
Babysit the wind-sound,
watch your steps on the sidewalk,
for a lone ant is zigzagging
on sizzling mid-day.
Although the punch line can split
in thin air but it is hammered
with reality.
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