Averse

*Richard Stine*

Averse

Poetry
Worries
Folks,
With 
It’s 
Obscure,
Inside
Jokes.
Most
Prefer
To
Fade
Away
From
Emotional
Word
Play.
The
Form
Is
A
Distillation,
A
Verbal
Creation,
A
Sequential
Game
In
Which
To
Name
A
Delicate
Thought.
Either
It’s 
Too
Intimate
To
Bear,
Or
They
Just
Don’t
Care.
I ought
To
Relent,
Be
Silent
And
Hide
These
Pages
On
Which
I say
What
Takes
My
Heart
Away,
Perhaps
To
Be
Read
After
I am
Dead.
Or
Not,
I can
Only
Give
What
I’ve
Got.
Like
Scribblers
Of
The
Past,
I hope
Some
Humble
Insight
Will
Last,
And
My
Song
Is
Passed
Along.