he disclimbed
writing poems is like hammering pitons into a cliff face
you trust life’s ropes to them
but you know one of them will give out one day
and your words seem to be taking you higher and higher
there is no safety net
the poets has unpicked it loop by loop
readers are concentrating below
with a safety blanket to catch you
but they seem to be running about all over the place
ping ping ping ping
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