The Choice: Redux

Re-edit of an old poem:



Splat anti
My bloodshot eyes,
Hangs my nightmare

Spindly, hairy,
Upturned, eight-legged,
Thrashing about

I thrink to lose it
In zigzag abstractions
And pregnant metaphors

The question
however
remains

When ‘tis cold
and dark
and utterly lonely
Who/What
would you
Be

Would you
dream of light
and warmth
and love
and stay
A Poet

Or would you
turn cold
and bitter
and impregnable
and safe,
But Alone