September Prose
September Prose
If I were heedless, goodness knows
That I would write September prose.
Ironic how I’d know my place
If I looked uncertainty in its face,
Made peace with things that no one knows;
Then I would write September prose.
The only lover of love is hate,
And tragedy is friends with fate.
“Why?” I ask, but no one knows;
I long to write September prose.
The sparrows know—look how they sing!
Oh, to ask them anything!
September prose I long to write,
Though I find my mind is quite a fright.
Poetic verse entraps me now;
It’s awful—sparrows, tell me how
Escape can ever come my way,
I'll wait a night and dreary day
For an answer no one knows;
I long to write September prose!