What do you get when you cut open a poet?
A pot of perfectly stewed thoughts
Cooking time adjusted to retain crunch
Creamy backdrop for life to wallow in
Mellow dreams that are in no hurry,
to flow out the ladle.
Every poem ever written,
wander aimlessly like meat that’s come off the bone.
The unwritten ones though,
get too cosy with the warmth of flavours seeping in.
Maybe they’ll never leave!
Well they don’t have to.
Now who will write me a requiem?
To sop up all that’s left of this hearty stew?