I see the Finishing tape

its almost the end:

The end of the month.

The end of the (rhyming) line.

The coda,

Full stop. 

Start again. 

One more time.

I’ve been quite hermetic,

I’ve not written much.

But I’m happy I’ve written what’s right.

And I’ve put myself into my words, spilt my blood,

Vented spleen, cried some tears, late at night. 

April is a new start, an opening door.

But come May, I won’t close my poem book, no.

Three years I’ve been doing this,

I’m frankly amazed,

But I’m thankful, I’m grateful

Why go?

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