At War with Words

I cannot decide
if the poet is an illusionist
or a fraud
a man or a woman
a hawk or a dove
an ocean or a pond.

This leaves me at war
with my own words
and seeking no rhyme,
for the wind that blows
in Los Angeles
is not the wind that blows
in New York City.

Ask not
that I place you
on a pedestal
ask only
how far the fall,
for that is the illusion
the fraud would have us wear.
                —patti dawn swansson/sierra

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