Poets' Practice Pad

The Best of Your Kind

On your first day under the sun,
burnt too badly by afterbirth pains,
you type away your dreams;
while you could do a zillion other things,
nothing else gets your motor going.

For the petals you scattered,
they say, “God’s Will.”
You ask, “Is it?” when you see the tears
inside rainbows that stain the sky,
which curtains trillions of soiled suns.

Your gypsy hands click clack
on the keyboard like a sorceress,
to go to a place of calm
where the best in your kind
are now but shadows.


Prompt: “The best in this kind are but shadows.”
Shakespeare --A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Act V. Scene 1.




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